


~ The Once and Future Kings ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Dance of the Veils [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Realities, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriages, Crossover, Fëanor is the physical embodiment of the Flame Imperishable, Hate Sex, Incest, Incestuous House Of Finwë, M/M, Multi, No simple parings, Noldor in Valinor, Northern Lights ‘verse, Passion, Polyamory, Summer’s Song (Summerland ‘verse), The Valar are either useless or despicable, Threesome - M/M/M, Tragedy, What If...?, Wherein we play around with quantum physics like no-one’s business, pansexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: After the destruction of the old universe, Vanimórë, sitting outside ‘Time’ in the ‘Monument’, believes himself a failure for creating new universes that are too much like the old. His mind is a desert, the hurt of Eru’s revelation driving him into isolation.Eventually, he decides to look into one of these universes, where the Valar’s hand lies heavy on the Elves and in particular a youth growing toward maturity and numbed by the heavy control of the Valar, who did not bring the Quendi to Aman to aid them or because they loved them — but because they wanted to control them.A story of Fëanor, and Fingolfin, the secrets woven into Valinor, the cold calculation and lies of the Valar, the forbidden passion that nevertheless grew between the half-brothers, and their determination to break the chains that were wrapped about them — with a little help from an unknown ally.They were Fireflower and Starfire, their lives linked over countless universes, drawn together by a bond that neither death nor Power could break.For readers of my ‘verse, this takes place chronologically takes place after Magnificat of the Damned Book IV and is part of that ‘verse. (And other ‘verses)





	1. ~ Out of Dust And Ashes ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/gifts), [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



> This first chapter will reference other ‘verses Vanimorë has, will be or is involved in, as written by Verhalen, Narya_Flame or myself. 
> 
> (Posted today so Narya can reference what Van is doing in his colossal aeons-long sulk) 
> 
> Thank you for giving me the title, Narya, which is also a book title by T.H. White. (Good book too).

  
  


**~ Out of Dust and Ashes ~**

 

 

 

 

~ When Arda formed, every Arda in every universe, she was already a part of it, a part of all life-bearing worlds. Unlike Mairon, she was not born out of the world, but had taken root there during its creation, her essence scattered across the universe to fall like cosmic dust upon the worlds. Every stone, blade of grass, dewdrop held her essence. Through it, she resisted Melkor, sending flowers to bloom through cracks of blasted stone, water to break out of dry rock. Life, frail yet triumphant in the shadow of his darkness.

Melkor knew she was there, as did Mairon, some force, some sentience beyond the Valar he had battled, something greater, more mysterious, but could find nothing to fix upon; it would have been like trying to stab a cloud to the heart.

She moved through rock, vapour, water, through earth, silent as mist. The _Quendi _felt her through the rich freedom of their lives, the beauty around them, but could give her no name except that of the Earth itself.__

Like her brother, she had no desire for worship, needed no fanes or icons to proclaim her existence. Vanimöré, shut away behind the high, fierce walls of his own guilt and self-hatred, she could not reach, but she knew his mind, had always known it. She saw and felt the wrongness as he did. The pattern had reformed awry, like shattered tesserae repaired by a hand that could only guess at the original image.

He could do what she was about to do, although it had not occurred to him and when it did, the thing would be done. She would accomplish this, fix this one broken pattern in many, and was better qualified than he who, though he had danced the universes into being, considered himself a destroyer, a killer, a warrior. So he was; destruction and creation both; the heart of his own paradox.

In the Tatyar settlement, whipped by a winter storm, Élernil lay with two women who had foreseen bearing his sons. He did not believe he would father children, but their visions were indeed prophetic. Yet even prophecy is subject to the vagaries of free will, and Élernil would walk away to a different destiny.

 _My daughters, thy visions were true._ She reached into the deep secrets of their bodies. _Thou shalt bear Élernil’s seed. Thou shalt know it in thy hearts._

Before Míriel’s death, she confide only in Indis. And Indis would not believe it until she quickened with her own first child. She would see them grow, Fëanor, Fingolfin, see in their faces the one who was lost, vanished into the darkness of the North.

Finwë would believe he was the father, as any man would, but Finarfin alone would be his. And he would love Fëanor and Fingolfin, love them, envy them, even hate them, as he had loved and hated and envied his twin. They would carry Élernil’s beauty, his blazing courage, his passion, and he would be forever bound to the Flame Imperishable, which as yet had no form but would touch him in the deeps of Utumno. As it had before. And thus, the _Ithiledhil_.

And so, the night proved fertile — and then the embryos slept under Vanya’s spell, waiting as a seed waits in dry soil sometimes for years, until the rains come and the hard shell splits to send roots to seek the air. When that time came they would grow as all children do. Brother and half-brother.  
Touched by mystery.

And Élernil, soon to walk into the horror that would change him forever, make him more (and less) than _Quendi_ , who would regard himself, ever after, as a blighted thing, infertile, half-demon...? Vanya sifted through her knowledge of multiple universes, plucked a quote that fitted: _Thou shalt get kings, thou thou be none._ * Chieftain they would call him, leader, but never High King. His twin tormented by his vanishing, would nevertheless feel a weight had been lifted from him, and would despise that relief in himself. So be it. _Thou didst not want to share with him, Finwë, but they, those sprung from him, will have hearts great enough to love many, and yet they will ever turn back to one another, each will be the lodestone for the other’s metal._

Her task done, Vanya withdrew, sighing into the winter earth, where the dormant seeds waited for the first rains of spring...

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

~Dead winds whipped around the Monument, staining the air a dull ochre.

He sat, cross-legged on the summit of the tower, looking across nothingness. The drone of the wind was hypnotic, the sameness (nothingness) almost soothing.  
He might have sat thus for a hundred years, a thousand — or long enough for suns to form and turn red giant. No measurement of time could hold in this place.

Beyond, universes expanded from their flaming hot origins, hurtling outward into Time. Galaxies formed and within them suns and solar systems.

The wind blew. Oppression lay upon him like a mountain; a sense of colossal weight, blame, heartache, guilt, failure. He could push the heartache away easily enough with the harsh blade of failure at his throat.

_Failure._

He did not even have to emerge from his self-imposed isolation to _see_ ; he had felt it, seen the unfurling of fate even as the universes spun into creation. And there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, to change the outcome. the bitter truth was that it could have been no other way. Those universes were created from his mind, his life, his experiences. All of that, drawn together to create new realities, flung out into Time, could not help but be similar to the one gone.  
The result was not how it should be, or rather, he thought cynically, how _he_ considered it should be. Egotistical, yes, also understandable. He was the observer, the creator, and so he could only see the ways in which they were wrong. False notes in the Great Song. Untuned strings.

And he turned away — at first. _Let things unfold as they will._ What else could he do except make matters worse.

_Everything I touch..._

The wrongness, the sense of failure, was not so easily ignored. It gnawed at his mind because there was this, always: in every universe he had created, the Valar tried to control the Elves, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes from a genuine desire to protect them — or simply because they could, because their power allowed them to.  
They would never, anywhere, be different because they, too, had been created out of Vanimórë’s mind. When he was young, learning of them through Elven thralls in Angband, he thought them oddities, incomprehensible. Later, he considered them ineffectual, either unable or unwilling to do anything to the purpose.

His father, when he spoke of the Valar had been scathing and, while Vanimórë never swallowed Sauron’s words without a shovelful of salt, a vague contempt had grown that hardened over the years. Then, after the bloody, dragging War of the Last Alliance, when Manwë offered him ‘forgiveness’ after condemning Gil-galad’s soul to the Void, that contempt had blazed into loathing.

And so, because the Valar could be nothing other than seeds born from Vanimórë’s mind, they were either egotistical nonentities or cruel children.  
He thought of all the gods as children, in fact, who could learn if they chose. Some did; many never desired to, content to explore and bask in the energy and wonders of the Universe into which they were born.

The catalyst of their curiosity was always Elves and Men, creatures who were born, and could die, but learned, strove against the odds. Unique, fragile, in comparison to the gods, yet still a strange threat and outside their control — although they might try, even devising the Halls of Mandos in which to imprison their souls.

That strangeness, that freedom, was why the Elves were ever lured into the net of Valinor, where the Valar sat behind the sheer walls of the Pelori, unwilling to leave, to confront the Darkness that was (like the Elves) beyond their comprehension. But Melkor, they feared more. They knew his power. To gain control of Arda, they had battled with him, certain of their own might and, their noses blooded, had retreated from Middle-earth entirely. They excused this, even to themselves, as not wanting to do more harm to the world where the Elves would awaken. The truth was less noble: They were waiting for the Elves to come because they wanted to bring them to Valinor, to _own_ them, like children discovering a box of new and beautiful dolls to play with. There was no-one to tell them not to. Not that Eru had done a marvellous job of curtailing them in the universe that was gone.

They were afraid of the Children, Vanimórë knew. They did not know why, for their vision was poor, flawed, but in some way they knew that, one day, the Elves would surpass them.

 

Safer, then, to hold them in Valinor, under their all-seeing eyes, keep them as toys. And it might have worked, but for the embodiment of the Flame Imperishable.  
  
Oromë was sent to the Outer Lands to search for the Elves. Of himself, he would have befriended them, aided them against the Dark, but let them be. There was more than a touch of the wild about him: the scent of deep forests, cloudy-headed mountains. But Manwë, Varda and Námo had appointed themselves the ruling triad of Aman, and so with reservations, Oromë obeyed their instructions.  
When, at last, he found them, the Valar were presented with an unforeseen challenge: By this time the _Quendi_ knew that some of their folk had been kidnapped, taken North to the Dark God’s realm. They refused to hearken to any words Oromë might speak concerning Valinor and its shining Powers until those powers moved against Melkor and rescued their people.  
  
Come down in might upon Utumno or risk losing these wonderful new toys... The Valar held conclave and, reluctantly, declared war on Melkor (but sending first their Maia warriors of whom Eönwë was the leader). Vanimórë’s mouth curled in disdain; they were gods and although they could be hurt when embodied, they could not be unmade save by his own hand or Eru’s, and so it was no great matter for them, save that they had discovered they could not abide pain.  
  
It was too late to rescue any prisoner. All they found were twisted creatures, foul and violent, dark sprits bound to service. Sauron had the wit to flee. Melkor did not.  
  
Melkor, like the Valar, like the Elves, was likewise born out of Vanimórë’s own thoughts and memories. Eru...existed, but was not in evidence save that which the gods attributed to him: life being the evidence of his existence. And the Timeless Halls, which the gods had found, beautiful and empty. The palace of Eru, reimagined from the mind of Fëanor, stood titanic and gorgeous on its mountain but was inaccessible to the gods. The _Ithiledhil_ and Sauron still dwelt there, and the meeting of new gods with old was not desirable. (At least not with Sauron as part of the equation).  
  
The gods attempted, many times, to reach the so-called ‘Holy Mountain’, but were ever denied. Neither could those upon it leave, save through the Portal, but it was hardly an imprisonment. Although no measurements could apply to the Timeless Halls, the Mountain was a world unto itself.  
  
So the gods wove their own legends around an absent Creator who was (naturally) an enlarged version of themselves with all their flaws and attributes. When Manwë purported to speak for Ilúvatar, he lied both to the Valar and himself, and the others had no way of disproving it. They, too, liked to imagine Eru communicated with them. How could they admit he did not without losing face?  
  
Vanimórë could have corrected them but his uppermost desire was simply to unmake them and once he began, he doubted he would be able to rein himself in until most were gone. There was a great deal of truth truth in the old saw that those who most desired rule were the ones least qualified to do so and should never get within touching distance of power. It was a pity Fëanor had not destroyed them when they were imprisoned, but they had been brought down and shown they were nothing in the burning light of the Elven apotheosis. Perhaps, in that dead universe, it had been enough.  
  
And there was another reason for his non-involvement, perhaps the greatest: the Elves had ascended because they were _ready to_ , through Ages of pain and grief torment. Of _living_ , experiencing life. Had they not been through the fire, they would have remained little different from the gods, unchanging, ignorant, untouched — exactly as the Valar wanted them to be.  
They, like he himself, had to be hammered on the anvil. He wanted them, in every reality, to pass into godhood, to throw down the Powers born out of the universe (his own mind) and have absolute freedom. There was no way to it but through _living._ Or there was, but if he were to give power into the hands of children they would be no different to the gods that existed, excited and drunk on their power with no real idea of what to do with it.  
  
He was sorry for it, heartsick, but he could not force them into power; it would break their minds. The suffering they experienced before that breaking and death would be as violent and cruel as if they had lived through it anyhow, only concentrated into seconds.  
  
But the Flame Imperishable was unleashed and, as before, it would spark into flame everyone it touched. Some would burn with hate, some with love, _but all would burn._  
  
He rose eventually, went down into the tower, the high room that was a replica of his own in Barad-dûr with touches of Sud Sicanna and Pashaar. He had resisted the brief temptation to stamp his personality upon the Monument. It was not his home for all its resemblance to Barad-dûr; he was only here because he had nowhere else to go. At he beginning he had, self-mockingly, considered peopling it with company, artificial lovers formed in the image of those he had desired but the thought had brought a lash of shame down on his back. And anyhow, he felt a husk, a dried corn-stalk desiccated by heat and drought. He was stripped of all passion, of the need or hunger for anything. Whether it had been the knowledge that Elgalad had never been anything but a mind-construct of Eru, or when he had danced the universes, he did not know or care. He had lived before with the passion sucked from him, but it had, both times, returned. Perhaps it would again. Or not. It hardly mattered.  
  
And still the oppression; not the desert-dry lack of passion but a shadow at the corner of his eyes, a compression, as if a heavy hand was settled on his skull and pushing. He tried to ignore it without success, thought it must be the shadow of the skein of lies Eru had woven about him, pulling the ground out from under his feet at the end.  
  
Eru.  
  
He thrust his mind out of the wheel-rut of deliberate disuse with an inward groan, and forced himself to think. Although he could, in fact sit here forever and do nothing, the idea disgusted him, because this was _exactly what Eru had done_ , save that he had gone to the Timeless Halls. The gods, feeling his presence, had flocked there, and he had not driven them away because, like Vanimórë, he was lonely. He too, had not wanted to get involved (beyond the very basics). Crippled, yet more powerful than the mightiest god, he had withheld his hand. It was the the first time, perhaps, that Vanimórë felt any kind of empathy; an emotion beyond curiosity.  
  
But cold rage at his duplicity was still uppermost.  
  
So, could this heaviness be an attack? His thoughts wanted to cringe away from Eru and everything concerning the false, heinous bastard, but Eru was not something he could afford to turn his back on indefinitely. Coldly, he made himself consider — not Eru-Elgalad, but the being who had fled from the destruction of a different universe. Able to conceal himself from Vanimórë he had done so, but that did not mean he was not active...somewhere.  
  
He would try to rejoin with Melkor. By his own words, he had wanted Melkor returned to him, to be complete, whole again. Whether he succeeded or not, Vanimórë had not looked to see. Since Melkor had once been a part of Eru, albeit the worse part, it seemed likely that they must come together, gravitate toward one another. Or would they repel, like two magnets? Melkor, however scattered his atoms of ‘self’ at the beginning, would always coalesce to become one entity. Subsuming that into another would be anathema to him, just as it would be for Vanimórë.  
  
Aeons passed.

The heaviness remained. He might call it depression, but it was not, not exactly. He paced his chambers, swore to himself.  
  
Attempting some kind of normality, he poured himself an ice-cold, dry wine and sat down, ankles crossed. After a while, he drank, trying to pretend to himself that anything at all was ‘ _normal_ ’, sitting on the Outside of Time in the Monument refusing to leave, do anything.  
  
_Because everything I touch turns to dross._  
  
He checked that thought. It was untrue. Just because Dana had proved poisonous, Elgalad an illusion, did not mean everything else had blackened at his touch: The _Khadakhir_ had, to the end, been loyal, courageous. Claire, Sören, Dooku... like the _Khadakhir_ , they had surmounted his blood, did not carry the taint like a disease, rotting him from the inside.  
  
He thoughts strayed to those other worlds: Claire’s, Sören’s, where they would have felt the flash-over of one universe ending, of other versions of themselves, dying. He frowned, thinking of those left behind, the few survivors. Sauron did not occupy his thoughts for long. His father was the _ultimate_ survivor, completely unsentimental, and no, doubt was already contemplating what he might do now. The _Ithiledhil_ had one another at least. Celebrimbor was a greater concern, having lost all his family but Finwë. Edenel and Coldagnir...? He should have gone to them, but they had not needed him or anything he could tell them. As for comfort, he had none to offer.  
  
They would use the Portal. Had used it (if he wanted to think of events proceeding linearly). They would know that those they had left behind in those worlds would feel the Ending, and would want to explain and reassure them. They were incapable of leaving those they loved in confusion and fear.  
  
They had not, he thought sadly, realised what would happen, what would grow, on those other worlds, ties of the heart that bind beyond even the destruction of a universe. He thought of Claire, who, through his blood (and Fëanor’s) would sense it, of Maglor, knowing that somewhere, he had ceased to exist, of Fëanor, Dooku, Magrét, Frankie, the Maglor of that reality...dying, dying dying, in an instant, all that beauty, that passion, that fire, that courage... _Everyone I loved..._ A handful of survivors, their world ended.  
  
He could not bear it. All he had ever wanted, from a child, holding his sister in that cold, dark chamber in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, was to be with the Elves. Even just seeing them would have been enough. The dream of being accepted by them, he had long since discarded like a worn out boot, but to be in their company, listening to the mellifluous voices, watching them, shining like diamonds, glittering, passion in every turn of the head, every flashing smile, fed some ancient need in him, warmed the coldness of his heart. He shivered, the shudder of a child, hungry and afraid in the dark.  
  
And now...  
  
Loneliness roared within him, blasting him hollow. He did not weep, had forgotten how, but he bowed his head hard into his hands.  
He had not known what would happen, had failed to realise what Fëanor was, what his meeting Melkor, that clash of power-upon-power would do. Fingolfin had been the catalyst, dying in glory. After that, nothing and no-one could have turned Fëanor from his course. _A supernova_.  
  
_I should have known._  
  
Ages later, he raised his head. He was tearless, empty as the winds.  
  
Survivors. _of course_ Edenel and Coldagnir would not remain in the Timeless Halls. And perhaps (possibly. Probably?) they would take Celebrimbor with them, whom had never been close to Finwë and whose relationship with Sauron was almost as strange as Vanimöré’s own. Which might complicate matters because Maglor hoped, ultimately, to free his family, which would mean _two_ Celebrimbor’s in one world. He almost smiled at that thought. Two Celebrimbor’s, perhaps not quite as incendiary as two Fëanor’s, _but..._  
  
Fëanor. He sat up straight. Narrowed his eyes. _Fëanor._  
  
The oppression was not anything within himself; it was emanating from _Fëanor._ All that star-bright brilliance and beauty as if created in a direct challenge to the Valar...  
  
His eyes narrowed. He thought of Fëanor, glorious and deadly, facing the onrushing might of Melkor-Ancalagon. He thought of Sören as he had been, oblivious, unaware that he and his family had been cursed into a Mortal existence by the powers who had never stopped hating him for _daring_ to stand against them, expose the rot under their whited sepulchres. But Fëanor was what he was; he could not be tamed, controlled. His creative fire pouring out into art and sex. Sören-Fëanor who had, now, awoken to who he truly was.  
  
The warmth of memory turned to dust in the dirge of the wind. Their sex had been explosive, superlative, and he would never regret it, but sex did not equate with love. Maglor had loathed him and still wanted him.  
  
He breathed in, let out his breath slowly. Self-pity was indulgent, useless. It had taken Sauron to slap him out of it the last time. He shook his head sharply. _Stop thinking about thyself._ What was happening with Fëanor?  
  
He closed his eyes, He opened the realities.  
  
All of them pulled at him, at his Fëanorion blood. It was as if he had been deaf and now heard the clamour of the world for the first time. It hit him like a shockwave of sound. He filtered it out, focussed as a hound turns to identify one particular scent.  
  
There was sense of blockage, of muffling. He concentrated on that one, saw a Valinor where the hand of the Valar lay heavy on a growing youth, stifling his blaze, making him sullen, awkward in his growing body, mentally struggling against a force he did not yet recognise as a threat. Curling away from his father, he rejected his stepmother and his father’s new children, buried himself in studies and grew frustrated at himself for not being more clever, not _knowing_ everything. There was some barrier, it seemed, behind which he could not reach. The Valar stunted him, and he did not know it.  
  
But Vanimórë knew. Fury burned like hot wine within his gut. It was not desire, not lust, but it was passion of a kind; not for him, but for this boy, the target of jealousy and fear. His birth had killed his mother, the first death Valinor had known. The Valar considered him dangerous before he ever reach manhood. If this continued he would do nothing with his life, the frustration deepening until it drove him into reclusive madness, an embarrassment to be (quietly) removed by the Valar.  
  
Their method of control was clever enough, Vanimórë had to admit: from the moment the Quendi set foot on those immaculate shores, the Valar had fed them the dew of the vats of Telperion and Laurelin; a symbol of their most holy beneficence. At regular intervals their Maia servants delivered to each household a cask of the nectar, which the family would ceremoniously drink in homage to their gods. Babies imbued it in the womb and later, through their mother’s milk.  
  
The effect was subtle; it did not make one drunk, but tranquillised. In the wake of it came relaxation without weariness. Their minds were therefore muffled, not enough to be noticeable, but enough to keep them tame, acquiescent, accepting of Valinor and the laws imposed on them. With the leaching miasma from the gods, as dead as the winds that scoured this place, it was enough to control them. The most peaceable characters did not question: Valinor was a land of beauty, bounty, ease without toil. Their lives in Endor had been wild, unenlightened (free). _Thou didst not know sin, thou didst not know the filth and ignorance of thy lives._  
  
In the strongest character there were regrets, until repeated doses of the narcotic dew numbed them, and even their old lives seemed like dreams. If their marriages lacked spice, if their lives were devoid of any real passion or pleasure, they had almost forgotten what passion felt like. Tended like exotic plants, their skills were channelled to the service of the Valar, used to beautify Valinor. But they did not reach the heights they could have attained. Came nowhere close.  
  
The most brilliant, the cleverest, sensed something was amiss, as if a glass ceiling had been laid over them. Fëanor, it affected most of all. Already stunted, he would never marry, never sire sons, never attain his potential. He would be regarded, even by his father, as some kind of mistake. An aberration. It happened; he would not be the first taken away by the Valar into a life of chains, fed nectar until they lived in a twilit world from which awakening was impossible. What better way to chain the Flame Imperishable?  
  
Vanimórë felt the rage rise in his blood, grateful for it, for _feeling_ , even if that emotion were solely on another’s behalf. If he had not been so enraged he would have delighted in the sensation, but he checked it with that vein of coldness that was all Sauron and considered. _What to do_?  
Valinor was not Earth; he could enter it, as he had before, in the fullness of his power and —  
No. It was too tempting, to drag the reins from the Valars hands, to control, just as they were controlling the Elves. He had vowed he would never do that, replace one form of rule with another.  
  
_I would want to protect them, let nothing harm them and, selfishly, I would never wish to let them go._  
  
His instinct to protect warred with his knowledge that they _must_ be free. Free from the Valar, from himself, to be _themselves_ with all their faculties intact, not half-drugged puppets. And Fëanor had to become be the fire that he was in truth, reaching out to touch the spark within the Elves into an inferno.  
  
He ran back up the steps to the summit of the tower; with snap of his fingers, the eternal ochre mist faded until he saw Valinor as if it were before him.  
  
Never truly a part of the world, the whole land was liminal; he need not map out ancient sites to use as portals when he wanted to leave. But the Valar would feel his presence. His mouth curled. _Let them._ He could conceal himself, stand before them in the rarified air of Taniquetil and they would not be able to see him. It would drive them mad searching for this ingress of power that was so alien and so invisible.  
  
For the first time in aeons, he smiled. It was a hard, wolfish upturn of his lips, but it was a smile nevertheless.  
  
Valinor, under the glare of Laurelin and Telperion was a strange place of too much light. The Trees themselves had been created out of fear of the Dark: the dim, far places of Endor where Melkor had delved, the gaps between the stars.  
The light of the Two Trees scorched across Aman, robbing the Elves of the cool darkness where the soul found repose. It slid through all gaps, blanched drapes and illuminated secrets, even to the bed-chambers where emasculated Elves performed their half-hearted lovemaking. Drunk on its nectar, they became accustomed to Light, even praised it, they whose Unbegotten had woken to starlight.  
  
Vanimórë found the illumination garish, an exercise in ego, power and control. The Valar had even erected a colossal dome over their land so that sun and moon were shut out and only the keenest eye, far from the brilliance of the trees, might discern the dim heavenly bodies beyond it. In its way, Valinor was as unreal as the Timeless Halls, something formed from the mind. There were crops, but they were forced, like pigs being fattened for slaughter, by the god’s powers. Left to itself, the land would be dead, blasted by the merciless, unremitting Light.  
  
The sonic-boom slammed across the sky as he entered Aman, and he felt the explosion of shock from every Valar and Maia in the land, the startlement of the Elves. He had wanted them to hear that, make them wonder, but now he unravelled his physical form and slipped amongst the roots of the Trees. The Valar were able to see disembodied spirits, but not him. He could conceal himself, and did so. They would sense his power, but never be able to locate it.  
  
There was a rush of wings; he saw Eonwë, perhaps the real and only warrior among the Ainur (for one could not count the boorish Tulkas for all his boast and brawn) alight in storm-grey hair and thunderclap clap of wings, his Maiar behind him. Vanimórë could see the rust-weeping shackles that held him a prisoner see, behind his brilliant eyes, the rage of his slavery. _One day, Eonwë._ The wind-spirit’s eyes widened a little, searching, but passed straight over him.  
  
Laurelin’s bark felt like hot metal, Telperion was cool silver. They were not trees, really (or not like any that grew on Endor) but organic mechanisms, fed by the gods’ powers, ornate lanterns for the purpose of casting of light. Because they were fashioned by Yavanna’s will, augmented by her brethren they were, of course, more than artefacts.  
  
A faint humming stridulated under his fingers. Gold and silver rain fell endlessly into the huge vats beneath them. Maiar servants tended it, dipping golden vessels into the nectar. Most would be poured down the throats of the Valar, Ilmarin’s fabled ‘White mead’. The rest would be carried to Valmar, Tirion, Alqualondë, to be drunk by the Elves. Keeping them tamed.  
All about the base of the vats, the earth was scorched bare by the spillage of the dew.  
  
Vanimöré considered it, arms folded, watching the endless movement of arms filling those golden vessels. He wanted the trees to continue to shine, because Fëanor would take inspiration from them in creating the Silmarils — even if that belief was erroneous and it was his own soul-light he was capturing. Still, he needed their brightness, and destroying them would mean breaking the Dome, which was easy enough for him, but would be traumatic for the Elves even in their stupefied state.  
  
He turned back to the trees, sank through their bark, into the very atoms of what they were, felt the pulse-beat of Yavanna’s will, the weaker influence of the other Valar. After their creation, given life, they survived, requiring no more Valarin power.  
  
He pushed his own power into each tree, neutralising Yavanna’s, absorbing it and banishing it into nothingness. It was his power, his spirit that now ran in Laurelin and Telperion. That, one day, Ungoliant might come and destroy them mattered nothing to him. They would have served their purpose and no object, no created thing could be set against the Elves he loved. Only the Silmarils, carrying pieces of the soul that created them, could be in any way comparable. The Valar had wanted to break them open for the light they held, in effect, to break Fëanor, simply to recreate these monuments to their own terror of the dark, and their fear of the Sun (whose own god had regarded them with contempt, chosen to try to face the Dark alone, but bowed under the corrupting weight until he forgot his own power). _All in good time, Nemrúshkeraz._  
  
He brushed through the vats of nectar, rearranging their molecules. Now the liquid would have a rather different effect when drunk. Rather more potent, but enlightening. It would clarify. The original drug would break down in the Elves systems naturally, over time.  
  
By now, the Valar were frightened and angry at this intrusion into their realm. He felt their minds attempting to locate the source, felt as they gathered in a huddle on Taniquetil and smiled grimly. _Thou hast no idea, none. So fear._ Children delighting in their power, frightened, understand nothing but the narrow confines of the knowledge they were born with. _Fear._  
  
In Tirion, a boy reaching toward manhood looked up from where he studied, roused by the unexpected sound, puzzling it out. He looked as if he had been shaken out of a long dream.  
In the light, his eyes burned like backlit diamonds.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

* Macbeth.


	2. ~ Awakening ~

  


 

 

 

**~ Awakening ~**

 

 

 

 

Within one Valinorean year, Fëanor’s mind, freed from restraint, expanded exponentially. He studied every day, sometimes long past when he should have slept, absorbing knowledge and passing it through his mind to bring forth new theories.

For years his sleep had been sporadic, restless, leaving him feeling ragged and crisp around the edges, like charred paper that could crumble at a touch. Now he slept deep and woke to soar like a reborn phoenix, fingertips stretching toward the potentiality of his intelligence. Energy bloomed within him like a fire blown from smouldering embers, frustration and ennui vanished in the inferno.

His tutors, the first to witness this explosion, were at first incredulous, then proud, but few questioned this urgent blossoming of their pupil’s mind. They nodded to one another wisely, assured themselves and Finwë that they had always known he was exceptional. Perhaps, they speculated, his brain had simply waited to catch up with his rapidly maturing body.

He grew tall, long legged and wide-shouldered; muscles from smith-work and athletics formed, strong and sleek. Everything was a challenge, not simply books and ideas; he pushed his body to his limits, tested that as he tested his brain. His hair poured in a riotous mane until it flooded toward his knees. Impatient with it, he bound it up in a high fist, or braided it back. His beauty attained a brilliance that stopped people in their tracks: that white skin, those cut-glass features, those eyes that were silver gems burning in his head as if the fire behind his skull, in his mind, blazed through them.

 

 

‘It is time we were thinking of marriage for him. Hast thou noted the way the young girls look at him?’

Indis’ voice reached him from the Lady’s Chamber, the room where she entertained friends and family. Finwë could often be found there when his duties for the day were done. Fëanor, coming to a halt, listened, eyes narrowed at the gap where the door had been imperfectly closed.

‘He is still young,’ his father replied. ‘Perhaps we should consider it. But his mind turns toward no woman. They may notice him, but he appears oblivious to them.’

‘Thou wouldst know better than I. Thou art certain? That could be a problem.’

‘Hardly, my dear. He has a mind for nothing but his writing and books and theories. People? Women? No. Not yet.’

‘Well,’ a rustle of silk. ‘The Festival of the Bounty is soon. There will be an opportunity to show him to other families. I shall speak to — _Fingolfin_ , get down from that bookshelf!’

Fëanor pushed open the door, stormed into the room to be hit by a projectile of gangly legs, clinging arms, a whip of black hair and a bundle of ten-year old energy that sent him staggering back. Arms flung around his neck and gripped. Fëanor flung out one hand to catch at the doorjamb, felt the gurgle of laughter against his neck. Over Fingolfin’s head he saw his father smile and then turn away to hide it. Indis looked irritated. Little Finarfin was gazing at them from the rug where he played with a tumble of toys.

Fëanor, at ten years old, had spent most of his time in gloomy, angry study, and most of his time since Fingolfin’s birth avoiding him (an easy task, since Indis clearly did not want her eldest son to form a friendship with Fëanor) Holding the slim young body, he felt the heat of embarrassment burn in his cheeks.

‘Sorry,’ Fingolfin said in his crystalline voice, and unlatched his arms, letting himself down to the floor. His hair, thick and silken as a bolt of water, slipped off Fëanor’s shoulder. He looked up under winging brows with eyes like the rarest blue diamonds, searching Fëanor’s face. In the face of them and Finarfin’s innocent gaze, Fëanor restrained his impulse to explode, limiting it to a few pithy words:  
‘How thoughtful of thee to concern thyselves with my future, father, stepmama, but _I_ shall decide when, if and who I marry.’

He gave them his back, walked away, and did not pause when his father’s voice called to him, and Fingolfin said, ‘Father, may I come?’

‘No, Fingolfin,’ Indis said firmly, and the door closed. Finwë caught up with Fëanor and touched his shoulder.  
‘Come to my study.’

In the quiet room, Finwë sat, while Fëanor prowled, picking up books and putting them back again, standing before the garden window, looking out.

‘Indis means no harm,’ Finwë began. ‘The marriage of the High Prince is something that interests all the Noldor, and it is our duty to guide thee.’

Fëanor clenched his hands. ‘I am not at all sure I wish to marry, father.’

‘Everyone wishes to marry,’ Finwë returned calmly.

A blistering response was caught behind his teeth. ‘I do not.’ He had discovered sexual pleasure, but could deal with that himself, and had no desire to curtail his studies and work for a wife or family.

‘That will change, when thou art in love,’ his father said with a complacent smile that stirred something wild, angry in Fëanor’s breast. ‘It is something thou must think about, Fëanor. I only wish thee to be happy and fulfilled.’

‘And what is I fall in love more than once, as thou didst?’ Fëanor asked, saccharine-sweet.

The complacency fell from Finwë’s mouth as if wiped off. He blinked, and Fëanor could feel the anger there, see as it moulded his father’s face into hard planes of marble. Finwë’s hands flattened on the table; the great ring he bore gave one sharp, red flash. Fëanor merely looked at him, brows raised in challenge.  
After a moment, Finwë seemed to bring his temper under control, though his lips were still pressed together.  
‘Very well. Thou art old enough to know.’ His eyes shifted to the side as if he were trying to recall something from memory. Then he said, ‘Before we came to Valinor, Indis was my lover, as was thy mother.’ A pause. ‘We all loved one another, my son. Such liaisons run contrary to the Laws of the Valar, as thou knowest. Míriel was my first lover, and so she became my queen. So yes, I have loved a mate more than once, but that was in a far place and another time. I know thou hast resented that Indis took Míriel’s place, and perhaps I should have told thee before, but now thou art almost of age. There was no question of that. I loved Indis as I loved thy mother.’

Fëanor stared. For a long moment he could think of nothing to say, then: ‘Wert thou lovers with Indis while my mother lived? Did she know?’ He was so shocked that the anger was, for the moment, lost in its haze.

A flinch. ‘No. Of course not! That is forbidden —‘

‘Why?’

‘It is unnatural to have more than one mate.’ The words were spoken primly, as if by rote. Fëanor swept them away with a sharp gesture of one hand.  
‘But apparently it was natural before we came here.’

Finwë looked down at the table. His brows pinched. ‘We were all very different then, Fëanor. The Outer Lands were dangerous and wild. There was a Darkness in the North. It had already devoured some of the _Quendi_.’ He drew in a short breath. ‘My br— my _best judgment_ was that my people should be safe and protected. That was the conclusion we all came to, Ingwë, Olwë and Elwë — and myself. And so we embarked on the Great Journey. The Valar gave us laws to live by, wise laws. We gave up our own, of course, for they were...savage, barbaric, and were glad to be enlightened.’ He still spoke as if reading words set out for him on parchment. As they had been, set out by the Valar. ‘And, for our safety, the peace of Valinor, was it not worth it?’

But Fëanor caught the flicking tail of a question. ‘Was it, father?’ _What was it thy tongue did stumble over_?  
‘And the darkness in the North, was that not Melkor, Námo’s prisoner?’

Everyone knew that the Dark God had been captured and brought to Aman, was held deep within the Halls of Mandos, a place not even a Power could escape from. But that was all they knew. It was not all there _was_ to know, Fëanor felt sure. The Halls of Mandos were a mystery he would have liked to discover more of, for they were no ordinary edifice; they must lie, he thought, outside of the world, of reality itself, if they could contain even a god. He had often wondered what they were like, envisaged cold grey stone, a limitless maze of nothing.

‘It is so.’ Finwë sounded wary. ‘But he did not act alone. Many of his followers and servants escaped judgement, so we were told. And doubtless still imperil those lands. And so I say to thee, _yes_ , the life we live here is worth abandoning what we were. But I tell thee this, Fëanor: when thou doth ignore and despise Indis for taking thy mother’s place, know that Míriel would have been hurt by thy demeanour toward one she, too, loved. Both of us mourn her as much as thou doth.’

There was a weight in Fëanor’s chest, the hot, choking _absence_ , the feeling that ever accompanied his mother’s name. Death. He pushed through it.  
‘Even if that is so, Indis has no love for me, father. She resents me. She would see Fingolfin as High Prince of the Noldor.’

Finwë did not meet his eyes. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug that said everything Fëanor needed to hear. He turned away.

‘Whatever her — very natural — wishes as a mother, Fingolfin is thy younger half-brother, and thy mother’s death was—‘

‘My fault?’

‘No-one knows why she died, even the Valar.’ But the words were too swift.

Tears burned behind Fëanor’s eyes. ‘I do have ears. I can hear. People have whispered this since I was a child. Wh-what...what other reason could there be?’

He heard his father move, felt his approach, the encircling arms that drew Fëanor against his breast. ‘We simply do not know. But death, here, is an anomaly. Therefore Fingolfin will never replace thee, just as thou wilt never replace me, and thy half-brother is too young even to think of such things.’

He would, Fëanor thought, soon enough, when he was old enough to heed his mother’s words, though it was true that the hierarchy of the ruling houses of Valinor was set, immutable. That Indis had loved Míriel too did not preclude her having ambitions for her own son, although what shape they would take, he was uncertain. He let himself sink into the embrace for a moment, then pulled away, left the room.

Once, and not so long ago, he would have wept in Finwë’s arms, overcome by self-doubt, frustration and a loneliness that even he could admit was self-imposed. He simply did not make friends easily.  
One of his tutors had scorned the easy tears out of him, caused him to burn with shame. ‘A Noldo prince does not weep like a babe crying for its mother’s teat,’ he had said coldly. ‘Thou art not the only one to be bereaved, to have lost someone.’ His tutor was one of the Unbegotten, like Finwë and assumed Fëanor’s moods were the product of grief. They had been once, but sometimes, as the years stretched away from her death, lead into a thicket of frustration and anger, the tears were not the result of sorrow. More and more, they came of a place inside him that burned dark with the sensation that he was _choking to death_ , crushed and compressed in this place that everyone seemed to think gilded with perfection.

He thought of this as he walked to his chambers. That, and his father’s astonishing revelation — and yet, it had not been that astonishing. It seemed, when he thought about it, completely natural that Elves should have more than one lover. What did surprise him, was the fact that his mother and Indis had been lovers. He had never, until that moment, considered that two women might experience sexual pleasure with one another and, he supposed, two men...

Blood beat into his cheeks. He was well aware of the...mechanics of sex; there were books on childbirth in the library, and he had seen the stallions mount the mares. But how...?

And what had his father meant to say before _My best judgement—_.  
_My br—_  
_Brother_?

He thought he knew his father; it is a strange, dislocating feeling to realise one’s parents have secrets that they do not share with their children, histories that paint them in a very different light to their public face. Indis, with her flowing pale hair, cool blue eyes, her delicacy and dignity, had once lain in passion with _Fëanor’s own mother_ , and with Finwë too, unless he had misunderstood. The three of them taking pleasure in one another. After the first stunned shock, he felt a certain sense of disgust, not at the past, the action, but the fact that they had given up their freedom for safety, shackled themselves to this land, its powers, its laws. The prudish, praying Vanyar, the self-controlled and stiff-necked Noldor were the product of that choice.

 _We were all very different, then,_ his father had said.

 _Oh, yes, father, it seems thou wert, indeed._ Different? That was not the word!

He needed to know more, and it was useless to apply to Finwë, who had closed up, told him all he was going to tell him, or at least at the moment. But Fëanor was aware now of hidden depths, like the deep blue water beyond the shallows off Alqualondë.

For the next few days, he haunted the library. He thought he had read through all the volumes save the ‘religious’ tomes, which were nothing more than verbose and syrupy homage to Manwë or Varda, Ulmo or Yavanna. (The other Valar received less worship). Now, though, he did glance through them lest they provide him with some overlooked information, but proved a not-unexpected disappointment; the only thing he found were paeans of gratitude to the Valar for rescuing the _Quendi_ from their barbaric lives in the darkness of Endor. His lip curled in contempt. It seemed to him that lives without the Valar ordering the Elves every move would be freedom. That danger and darkness were a price worth paying. He wondered if his father, if Indis, is every Elf who had known the freedom of the Outer Lands secretly harboured regrets.

He replaced the books, climbed the ladder to an upper shelf. Here the volumes were older, with a few treatises on flora and fauna of the Great Journey. The Master of the Tomes had told him that they were written soon after the _Quendi_ entered Valinor. They were rarely used now, he said, as Aman contained every plant and animal that existed in Endor. Hmm...how true was that?

Fëanor had spent so many years in the library, that he knew every book and its place upon the shelves. Which was why one caught his eye. It was bound in deep red leather, with no title either on cover or spine. Yet, on this shelf of old books, it appeared new, as if the Master or one of his assistants had only placed it on the shelf the previous day. The leaves were edged with gold. Curious, he flipped the front cover open and almost fell off the ladder as he read: _For Fëanáro Curufinwë Serindion_.

His heart beat in his ears in quick, heavy strokes. The last time he had felt this sense of...something unknown, mysterious was a year ago when that thunderous blast of sound had torn the sky. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.

He cast a glance around, but he had made the library his special preserve ever since he could read, and the silent librarians were used to his presence; they knew he would handle the books with care and reverence, that there was no need to keep him under observation. A few clerks and tutors bent over their desks, deep in study. Nothing else stirred. The air smelt of parchment, ink, leather, comforting and normal.

He inserted the book into the middle of two others, and climbed down, seating himself at a desk in a corner.

 _Wouldst thou know the truth of thy people_? The second page asked him.

He ran his fingers over it; creamy vellum, the stuff of kings, of princes; the writing a beautiful, flowing script, but a hint of danger in the sharp upward strokes, as if they had been incised with the point of a dagger. His skin prickled. And there was a scent here, elusive, smoky, deep. A trace of Sandalwood.

He began to read.

 

 

He missed the family dinner that night, which brought a servant hurrying to his rooms. He requested a tray, saying he had been studying, which was true enough.  
It would not be the first time he had failed to appear at the table.

He wished he could have stolen the book, taken it to his bedchamber, but there was no way he could hide it, even if his name was inside it. The Master of the Tomes had a very terse way with people who tried to ‘borrow’ any of his books, and Fëanor respected that. But in breeches and shirt he had no way of hiding it, anyhow. Fortunately, in the last year, his memory had become perfect; he only had to close his eyes to see the page, the words, he required.

This book had appeared at the very time he had been determined to find someone (perhaps one of the Teleri, who lived more distant from the Valar, and had been the last-comers to Aman) who would tell him the truth of life in Endor. Given time, he thought he might pry more out of his father, but doubted he could do so without losing his temper. He had no patience for lies or misdirection and that stumbled word...Brother? had alerted him to both. Had Finwë a brother, lost to the Dark, and if so why did no-one ever speak of him; Surely his memory would be cherished, and if not, why?

Patience, no, that was not one of Fëanor’s virtues, the necessary patience it would need to unlock Finwë’s secrets. He had none for himself, and precious little for others. It was, moreover, a little unfair to prod his father into revealing the truth. Finwë represented all the Noldor of Valinor and was their High King. He had, unpalatable though it might seem to Fëanor, a _duty_ to the Valar. Fëanor’s mouth made a moue of contempt. He could understand why a leader of the _Quendi_ would lead his people here, away from danger, perhaps especially if his brother had been taken into the jaws of the Dark. And yet ... _I do not think I would have. I would have searched for my brother..._

He could almost smell the scent of wild, pine-clad mountains, the marshes and salt flats where the aurochs grazed; see the mists of autumn curling up through deep-green boughs, the flash and plunge of clear streams, the changing colours of the Inland Sea, racing grey as pewter under a winter wind, gleaming turquoise under the summer sun.

The Sun, the Moon. The naming and explanation of them had shocked him into stillness, hand flat on the open book. Here in Valinor, the stars were invisible, but enough knowledge had passed across the Great Sea for Fëanor to know what they were. The _Quendi_ even named themselves _The People of the Stars._ He had often tried to imagine them; now, in his mind’s eye he saw them clearly, great sheets of brilliance, and scattered sparks that spanned a dark, dark sky, illuminated the clear nights.

They were celestial bodies, too, the author of the book explained, suns themselves but far distant from the planet. The Sun was the star around which Arda revolved, the immense gravity pulling Arda and its family of sister-planets into an orbit around it. The Moon was a satellite of Arda, and possessed no light of its own, reflecting that of the sun. It appeared to wax and wane in the sky, full and ripe, or thin as a nail-paring...

Fëanor could see both Sun and Moon in his imaginings and opened his eyes in annoyance to the eternal Light of the Trees. Telperion was shining silver now. He thought of blessedly cool, dark nights, and the quietude they would bring, settling over a sleeping world.

And he thought of the _Quendi_ , who had lived their lives free of the dictates of foreign Powers, laughing, hunting, loving, making and following their own laws...

He jumped violently at a movement out of the corner of his eye. The inner door was being pushed open. That was in itself unusual. Even his father knocked before entering Fëanor’s private sanctum. He glared at it, ready to lash out.

A shining dark head peered around. Fingolfin looked in, hesitated and then entered.

Fëanor continued to glare. It was a look which made most people step aside to avoid him, but Fingolfin seemed not to be privy to self-preservation, and advanced boldly.

His half-brother had passed the long, infant stage of Elven growth and was beginning to shoot up, legs long as a colt’s, his face already assuming a smooth, shield-shaped piquancy, skin smooth as poured cream drawn taut over delicate bones.

Fëanor was unsure of what to say. Whatever Indis’ plans, Fingolfin was too young to be a part of them, and it would be beneath him to unleash his anger on a youngling.  
‘What is it?’ he said at last.

Fingolfin surveyed his face with those enormous star-blue eyes (like the stars over Cuiviénen) and withdrew one hand from behind his back. His overture and peace-offering was a large peach, yellow and red with perfect ripeness.

‘Thou wert not at supper,’ he said.

An strange emotion took Fëanor by the throat, a kind of wild tenderness that was unfamiliar and strange. He had loved what he remembered of his mother (precious little) and held a complicated, resentful love for his father (Finwë could be so much more than he was!) but this feeling ambushed him out of nowhere. While Fëanor’s elders might hide things from him, in Fingolfin’s eyes there was no guile, nothing but curiosity and a desire to be accepted.

‘My thanks,’ he said awkwardly. Then: ‘Wouldst thou like to share it?’

Fingolfin beamed. Fëanor took a clean paring-knife from the drawer and cut the peach in half, juices streaming from its fleshy wound. Fingolfin laughed at that, catching it on his hands and sucking it, biting into his half and loosing another stream of juice down his chin. After, Fëanor took Fingolfin into the bathing room, cleaned their sticky hands and faces.  
‘Art thou supposed to be here?’ He attempted sternness. ‘Is it not time for thee to be abed?’

Fingolfin grinned. ‘Mother and father think I am.’

‘Then why didst thou come?’

‘I wanted to thank thee for catching me the other day when I jumped off the bookshelf.’ A sparkle of mirth.

‘Well,’ Fëanor replaced the towel. ‘Thou didst not give me any choice.’

‘Oh, I can land well,’ Fingolfin said airily. ‘But I knew thou wert there, I knew thou wouldst catch me.’

Fëanor looked down at him. ‘How didst thou know? Father did not, nor Indis.’

A shrug. ‘I just did.’ A smile lit up his face. ‘I always do, but thou art always running away.’

Fëanor flushed. ‘I am busy.’ Was that what it looked like?

‘I was practicing,’ Fingolfin explained. ‘I want to be a great warrior one day.’

Walking back into the bedchamber, Fëanor paused. ‘There is no need for warriors in Valinor. Whom wouldst thou fight?’

‘There will be warriors one day.’ He caught hold of Fëanor’s sleeve and whispered. ‘I dreamed about it.’ A tug, to pull Fëanor down to his level. ‘Father told me not to speak of it.’ His feet shuffled.

‘Didst...Did someone tell thee a story about battles and warriors?’ Fëanor asked curiously. His own nurses had never told him anything except the dullest of tales, and he was rather envious.

‘No.’ The black head was downbent, the feet in their little velvet bed-slippers shuffled again. ‘I told thee, I dreamed it.’

‘What was the dream about? I promise I will tell no-one.’

Fingolfin raised his head, subjected Fëanor to a long, searching look, then as if his inspection had satisfied him, he whispered, ‘Promise?’

‘I have said so.’

Fingolfin dragged him over to the sofa and knelt on it, leaning into Fëanor’s side as if he belonged there, as if they had been close since childhood.  
‘I was riding,’ he confided, ‘a beautiful white stallion. The ground was all burnt as if there had been a fire. I was holding a sword.’ He held out his slim arm, hand gripped into a fist. ‘I was going to...to fight something...something terrible.’ He swallowed, then his face set, oddly hard for a boy. ‘I was not scared, I was...angry. So angry...’ He stopped then, the feathery black lashes lowering like fans over his eyes. Fëanor heard him swallow, saw his hands clench.  
He frowned. ‘Angry with whom?’

‘I...nothing,’

It clearly was not nothing. Fingolfin’s body, pressed against Fëanor’s, was tense.  
Fëanor, although not so far removed from childhood himself, did not know how to deal with this sudden retreat into muteness from a younger child. He thought Fingolfin might feel better if he spoke about what troubled him, but he also knew what it was like to wish to keep secrets from the world.

He looked down. Fingolfin looked up. His eyes were huge, burning blue-white. He gulped and said comprehensively: ‘ _Everything_!’

‘I know how that feels,’ Fëanor assured him wryly. He had been angry with everything and everyone all his life, save in the last year although he sensed Fingolfin’s dream-anger was of another order entirely, enough to show even now in his eyes. He wondered what the boy had heard to evoke that kind of feeling. Elves, he had always been told, dreamed only of their own lives.  
  
‘Was that all?’ he asked. ‘Was there any more to the dream?’  
  
‘I woke up,’ Fingolfin said in a small voice. ‘And everything hurt.’  
  
Fëanor’s frown deepened. ‘What hurt?’  
  
‘Everything...’ he said again, and rubbed his chest, mouth downturned as at a memory of pain.  
  
‘Did Indis take thee to the healers?’ While injury was rare in Valinor (and disease unknown) it did occur. More common was a kind of lassitude and growing sense of unease, or it had been until last year, the date, Fëanor remembered, of what he termed, his own awakening, the time of the unexplained noise in the sky.  
  
‘Yes. They thought I might have sleep-walked and hurt myself.’  
  
Sleep walking, too, was uncommon. From what Fëanor had learned it had been more common among the Unbegotten, and then only in the first years after their arrival.  
  
‘How long ago didst thou dream this?’  
  
‘Almost a year, just before my begetting day.’ Fingolfin wrapped his arms around his knees. He cast another upward look.  
  
Almost a year...the time scale was important. But Fëanor had never been able to find out anything about that sky-shattering roar, which had roused him from the dark torpor of his studies. Thunder, the Valar pronounced. But it was after that, slowly, he had begun to wake up.  
  
‘Well, do not worry about it,’ he said. ‘Come, thou shouldst be in bed by now.’ He rose, put out his hand. Fingolfin slid his own into it, and they went out, down the corridors to Fingolfin’s room. No-one was around, no Indis of Finwë or maid requiring an accounting.  
  
‘Go on,’ Fëanor said quietly, but Fingolfin pulled on his hand, drew him into the room. It was as large as Fëanor’s own, but the drapes and hangings were of a rich sapphire rather than deep red, the marble floor laid with embroidered rugs. Long curtains were drawn over the windows to shut out as much of Telperion’s light as possible.  
  
Fingolfin kicked off his slippers and climbed into the great bed, drew his loose hair over one shoulder. The thick, slippery darkness spilled across the pillows.  
‘If thou shouldst have another dream,’ Fëanor said slowly, ‘Wilt thou tell me?’  
  
Fingolfin nodded, then said, ‘Stay with me until I go to sleep? Please?’  
  
‘Indis would not like it.’  
  
By the way those star-blue eyes shifted away, he knew that Fingolfin, for all his boldness, had indeed been warned against him, but his half-brother essayed a casual shrug. ‘I will not tell her. It can be our secret.’  
  
He ought to have gone then, but although Fingolfin did not beg him, there was a plea in those eyes. Fëanor sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I can tell thee a story,’ he suggested, thinking of the revelations he had read and wanting so much to share them. This was one way that he could, and it would be no dry, moral tale of the Valar, half-threatening disobedient children with punishment, but a vision of free, wild lands, the lands of the _Quendi’s_ birth. ‘Only thou must tell no one,’ he warned, ‘not even father. Promise me this, Fingolfin.’  
  
Fingolfin placed one finger over his lips, the other hand on his heart. ‘I _promise,_ Fëanor. I promise.’ Then he brought the hand down from his heart, slid it into Fëanor’s and gripped, surprisingly strong. ‘It is our secret.’  
  
Their first secret.  


 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finwë, Míriel and Indis being a triad before the Great Journey is an idea I borrowed from Narya-Flame. Thank you :)


	3. ~ Blossoming ~

  
  
  
  


 

 

~ Blossoming ~

 

 

 

 

~ ‘It is not necessary for thee, as High Prince, to learn the skills of an artisan or labourer.’ Finwë frowned.

A prickling rush of annoyance swept through Fëanor’s veins, but he grasped his temper in both hands. Argument would only turn his father stubborn, and when it reached that stage, he would respond with anger. Such confrontations never ended well. And he _wanted_ to further his knowledge.  
‘I am interested, father, and if I have any skill, it would be wasteful to let it rot. Do not the Valar tell us that such gifts are given by Eru?’

In Cuiviénen (so he had read) each individual cultivated their inborn talents, but could turn their hands to anything, thus the whole community benefited. Fëanor saw the sense in that. Yes, there had been leaders and those who followed them, but the rigid hierarchy that ruled Valinor was absent. Fëanor knew that it might have come to pass, that kind of structure, but for very different reasons: a leader in Cuiviénen was the boldest, most courageous, hunting and providing for his folk, settling disputes, tracking, exploring, training the young. His hands were the first to raise a house, to to bring down the kill; he would sense the oncoming storm and make provision for it.

Fëanor could not envisage his father doing any of these things save the settling of disputes, although he remembered his words that they had all been ‘different’ in those days. In Valinor, a king was little more than a glorified arbiter, and a figurehead who ensured the Laws of the Valar were obeyed. In effect, at least in Fëanor’s judgement, less of a king.

‘I _want_ to learn.’ He pressed into his father’s silence. ‘And the metalsmiths here at the Palace have taught me all they know.’

‘What dost thou want to learn that they cannot teach thee?’ his father asked.

‘Jewellery,’ Fëanor shrugged, ‘knives, anything, father, that the metalsmiths here do not make.’ He could not explain his desire to _create_. If Finwë did not understand that it was like air to him, like food, there was no point in attempting it.

‘Well, I could place thee with Mahtan, I suppose,’ Finwë said slowly. ‘He is very skilled.’ Mahtan was one of the Unbegotten, and a Master-smith.

‘I can go and ask Mahtan myself, father.’

Finwë pursed his mouth. ‘That is not how it is done. And thou art High Prince and not yet of age. Leave it to me. But after the Festival.’ He raised a hand. ‘Yes, we have heard enough about thy not wanting to attend, but whilst thou art still a boy, I have to insist. We must set an example.’

When his father talked in this manner, Fëanor felt the simmering irritation blossom into a high, hot pressure within the confines of his skull. Not a new reaction in the last year; he found himself becoming angry more often, and had begun to resist —push back against — the high days and holy days that drew the Noldor periodically to Ilmarin. Finwë might insist that it was only right and proper for the Elves to give thanks for the bounty bestowed on them, but Fëanor had yet to see a Vala harvesting the crops, pressing the wine, tending the livestock, sweeping the streets.  
If any thanks should be given, it should be to the land itself and the One who created it, (the mysterious Eru Ilúvatar) not the Valar, who had simply annexed Valinor and made it their domain. They had, of course, created the Trees. Fëanor could admire them for their beauty, but since learning of the Sun and Moon, he wondered what their purpose was. Perhaps the Powers had created them simply because they could do so, which expression of artistic ability he could at least understand. But the creeping suspicion that nothing in Aman was natural had grown since reading the anonymously authored book. There were no real seasons here, at least none that grew out of the Earth itself. It was no secret that the Valar ordered even the weather, but it was the Tree light that had necessitated that control.

The book had been troubling him because it had vanished, and he could not ask the Master of Tomes or his assistants about its disappearance. He was certain that such a book would never find its way into the library at all, save secretly. All new writings must pass under the scrutiny of the Valar before they were circulated. Which meant that whoever placed it there had probably removed it once they knew he had read it. But _who was it_? He tried to remember if he had seen anyone unknown in the library, but failed. He had been so absorbed in reading that one of the huge shelves could have collapsed behind him and he would never have noticed. The Master himself had not mentioned a volume going missing, and he was as fiercely protective of his books as a lioness her cubs.

So...There were only two possible conclusions: he had an unknown ally who mistrusted the Valar, or the Valar themselves were trying to entrap him. The thought stiffened every muscle but he was afraid of becoming paranoid, an almost constant state in the last few years before he... _awoke_. Now, though he was indeed wary of them, wondered if their much-vaunted omniscience, the ability to read minds was, in fact, true. If it was, he must be careful.

In the light of his suspicions it might be wise to attend the Festival (not that he had any real choice, yet). It was one of the few times and places one might see the Valar gathered together. The gathering would, he knew from experience, be mind-numbingly boring, as one Elf after another rose to recite flowery poems in praise of the Powers. More monotonous still were Manwë’s everlasting sermons. Fëanor could not, of course, read the Valars’ minds, or even their faces, passionless as set wax, but their words might be revealing.

 

 

Each festival lasted a week, since the journey to Ilmarin was long. The road ran up the spine of the mountain, flanked with huge statues of the Valar along its length. Taniquetil’s snows blazed unsullied white under the sun, a reminder that the vast height of the mountain was only accessible to the Elves because the Holy Ones permitted it.

The Noldor were skilled at building, but the Halls of Ilmarin defied everything Fëanor had learned of architecture. The height and slenderness of the towers would have been impossible without Power, while some of the decorative shapes twisted uncomfortably on the senses, as if they were trying to slither out of the present, into the past or future. It reminded Fëanor of the octopuses he had found in the shallow waters around Alqualondë, and there was a queasy suggestion of movement about them only visible out of the corner of one’s eyes. The halls, each dedicated to one of the Powers, were so immense that their inhabitants should have been gigantic; the stature the Valar chose to assume was larger and taller than an Elf, but not by much. Enough to overawe.

The gardens were pristine, every leaf and petal perfect. Fëanor thought them regimented, sterile, as if the plant life was a sugary confection that would melt in the rain. Here, the common folk were housed in silken tents for the duration of the festival, while the nobles were given chambers within. Ilmarin could have quartered tens of thousands, but the hierarchy was almost fanatically observed.

On the first day, Manwë and Varda received the Noldor in the Throne Hall, seated high above the gleaming floor on a stepped dais. Armed Maia stood around them. Fëanor assumed he had seen them before but only noted Eonwë, who looked like the most puissant of warriors in his white and gold armour, his eyes, fixed straight ahead, the colour of storm clouds, lightning rent. Fëanor found himself admiring the armour, wondering if he could replicate it.

‘Welcome, O Finwë, High King of the Noldor, to our Festival of Bounty. May thy presence here bring thee greater wisdom and enlightenment.’

Manwë’s voice was the threat in Eonwë’s eyes: wind carrying thunder in its arms. Varda’s was a precise, fluting crystal. The two might have been siblings but for the colour of their hair: His a bleached gold, hers black. Dressed in in white samite with crowns of diamond and sapphire, they each raised one hand in benediction. As one, the Noldor dropped to their knees.

The Vanyar, with less distance to travel, had already arrived. Indeed Ingwë, their High King, had removed to Ilmarin entirely, and sat at the feet of Manwë, his frost-white hair crowned with gold. Fëanor thought him half-asleep (understandable for anyone constantly in the presence of Manwë) His head was bent to the floor, but then, as if he felt Fëanor’s contemptuous glance, he looked up.

Interest stirred in Fëanor’s loins — a surprising reaction. While Ingwë’s lifelessness was as attractive as a plain wall, he was undeniably stunning. Against that white hair and skin, his eyes were pure cobalt blue, his features clean and hard as a carving. But then, he was not far removed from that. Fëanor watched him as he rose, stepped down to greet Finwë. The two had once been friends, but as Ingwë fell more and more under what Fëanor was beginning to think of as _the thrall_ of the Valar, he left Valmar for the Holy Mountain, and the friendship dwindled. Not that Finwë had told Fëanor as much, but it was plain to see that Ingwë ate, drank and probably pissed the Valar’s ‘holiness’.

Ingwë had been one of the leaders in Cuiviénen. None of them were named, but Fëanor knew those who had lead the Great Journey were already chieftains of their tribes, ratified in their rule by the Valar in Aman. The Teleri had two leaders, one of whom, Elwë, had become lost, so that only Olwë was left to rule in his halls by the sea.

Fëanor tried to imagine Ingwë hunting, tracking, doing _anything_ whatsoever, in fact, and experienced a complete blank. His imagination failed him. What had _happened_ to Ingwë — to all of them?

The two High King’s bowed to one another, then Ingwë greeted his sister, Indis, who made a low reverence. Fingolfin, on her left hand side, received a few words, then Fëanor, who simply looked straight into those gorgeous, vacant eyes. And winked.

The wink was an act of rebellion in the Halls of the Valar, wanting to evoke some kind of reaction. Ingwë jerked, blinked at him, dark lashes framing eyes that were momentarily startled out of their vagueness. It lent him a hint of true animation, as did the flush that painted his cheekbones. With those aids to normality, to _life_ , he was spectacularly lovely and for the first time, at least in the presence of another Elf, Fëanor felt himself growing hard, imagining what it would be like to see Ingwë undone by lust. He blushed at the thought, grateful that the long tunic he wore at least hid the sign of arousal.

‘Welcome, Prince Fëanor.’ Ingwë’s voice was hard and flat and refined as polished metal. He turned away, rather quickly, and returned to his seat of abasement. Maia servants, dressed in the white of their king and queen, brought around deep golden bowls of nectar. Fëanor stifled a grimace. He could not avoid drinking it with his family, in the weekly thanksgiving ceremony, but the volume that flowed at these festivals had always made him sleepy, foggy-headed, which he detested. But not lately. Not, he realised, as he tasted it, since...since that day...

He took a deep draught and, even as the dew hit his stomach, potent as wine, but far more powerful, the realisation illuminated his mind: this water-pale nectar, was not the same as it once had been. The taste was little different, but there as an edge to it that bit like a blade, icy and fiery both. There was no lassitude after swallowing, which he had ever tried to fight, rather it cleared his head like a splash of icy water. He looked into the almost-empty bowl, trying to think...after that sound in the sky...the Maia had come with the dew and the effects of it had not been what he expected. He usually needed a day for the mist to clear, but that time, and ever since...

_It is not the same. But how, why?_

All around him, people murmured prayers as they drank, passing the bowls back to the servants, turning to find their seats. Fingolfin met Fëanor’s eyes with a mischievous little smile, manoeuvring himself so that he took a seat next to him. Indis apparently felt it not worth removing him, as she said nothing, only _looked_ before sinking into the cushions and folding her hands in her lap.

Fëanor felt trapped, wanted to walk out of the room, wished he was anywhere but here, somewhere he had time to think. He could not do so full view of the Valar, uncertain of how much of his mind they could see. Nothing, everything, a little? Well, let them look, then. He set himself to calculate the weight the pillars of this chamber would have to bear to uphold the vast dome of the roof. Beside him, Fingolfin shifted and sighed as the first Noldo, a celebrated poet, rose to begin the interminable day devoted to praise of the Valar, Manwë and Varda in particular.

Fëanor closed it out. Fingolfin grew steadily more restless, plaiting his feet, picking at the silver threads on his tunic. It was ridiculous to bring a child to this fawning festival of boredom. Here and there, other youngsters shifted their limbs, stifled yawns. But last year, although Fingolfin had been seated the other side of Indis and Fëanor had not taken much notice, surely the boy had been calmer, even asleep?

_Yes, because last year and all the years before that, they were drugged into tranquility by the nectar._

The thought was like the last piece of a puzzle. He stared carefully down at his hands. _Is it that? Is it that simple_? The Valar had been drugging them. But that drug had now changed. Again the question was why and how?

Finwë and Indis sat straight as lances, eyes fixed ahead, but Finwë’s hand moved to pinch his younger son into stillness. Fingolfin pouted, folded his arms, was quiet for a short time and then began to tap one foot. Fëanor touched him warningly, and Fingolfin unfolded his arms, slid one hand into Fëanor’s and gripped it.

Finally, Manwë rose, white robes falling about his feet.  
‘I thank thee, Children for thy wise words. They are well spoken and we are pleased. Go now to refresh thyselves, and remember, philosophy is the enemy of wisdom. In the writ of the Valar alone lies comfort and understanding. After thou hast dined, I will speak.’

Fëanor bit down on the desire to groan, and rose thankfully to his feet.

They fell into line behind Finwë and Indis, who lead them out of the Throne Hall and into an anteroom where food had been set out. The common folk went out into the gardens. Although out of eyesight of the Valar, everyone’s manner was still subdued, like children intimidated into obedience by a stern tutor.

The array of dishes was always varied, but Fëanor only picked at his food while Fingolfin bent over his plate and pushed a piece of baked fish around. Indis was in quiet conversation with Finwë, with members of the High Council hovering nearby. Fingolfin looked up at her, then set aside his tray suddenly and whispered, ‘Come on.’

‘Where?’ Fëanor whispered back.

‘Anywhere!’ With a challenging flash of his eyes he bounded away, and before Indis could call his name, Fëanor followed him, through the chamber and into a colonnaded walkway. Fingolfin ran under one of the colonnades, and out into the gardens.

Fëanor caught up with him. The gardens might be immense, but they looked down over the sheer side of Taniquetil. Leagues away, that killing drop, but Fingolfin was running like a child escaped from the schoolroom, black hair shimmering. He spun around, laughing. ‘Shall we go home, Fëanor?’

‘I wish we could.’

‘And now, we have to listen to Lord Manwë.’ Fingolfin rolled his eyes. ‘What a bore.’

‘Fingolfin, _hush._ ’ He caught Fingolfin’s hand. ‘Let us find somewhere quieter.’

They wove past groups of the common folk who were enjoying their own feast in the gardens, ran through a grove of enormous trees, a garden of blue roses. This high above the Trees their light was not as fierce, only casting their glow into the sky, but the Valar illuminated their Halls with a constant brilliance, shadowless and harsh. It seemed there was no place to hide from the glare.

They passed a huge ornamental pool the colour of Ingwë’s eyes, but bare of fish, pushed among a blowsy grove of blood-red peonies higher than their heads. A great courtyard stretched before them, paved in black and white tiles.

And everywhere, there were the statues: Manwë, in a swirl of wind, Varda cast a spray of crystal stars out into the heavens, Ulmo rose from a splash of sea-foam, Aulë held a hammer heavy enough to crack the earth, Yavanna spread her arms into branches, half-tree, half-woman...each Ainu was represented over and over: Námo held a great open book in one hand, quill poised over it. Fëanor had always thought his a famished face, as though he always hungered, but for what? Nessa leapt fleet-footed among deer, Nienna’s tears flowed and flowed. Tulkas stood, one foot planted on a writhing shape that might be man or monster, biceps flexed in grinning victory. Vána danced, clad in flowers. Estë cradled a fawn in her arms, Vairë stood before a tapestry, plying a silver needle. Of Irmo and Oromë there were fewer sculptures, Fëanor did not know why.

‘It feels like they are watching us all the time,’ Fingolfin whispered as they passed under Námo’s cold, labial eyes.

‘They might be,’ Fëanor murmured.  
  
They came to a wide green lawn where white peacocks strutted, their eerie cries echoing back from walls. An archway took them into a grotesque place of clipped hedges in strange shapes half-plant, half-animal, or some creature Fëanor had no name for. Then came an enclosure of raked gravel that baked in the light. Golden walls shot back the heat like a burning glass.  
  
‘Horrible,’ Fingolfin’s fingers tightened about his.  
  
‘Come on, I suppose we have to get back.’ Fëanor was reluctant.  
  
‘I wish we could go home.’ Fingolfin dragged his feet.  
  
‘So do I.’ For a moment he toyed with the thought of just leaving, running down the mountain road, Fingolfin’s hand in his, running all the way to Tirion, and beyond, to Alqualondë, asking the mariners to sail them back to Endor, to lands beyond the Valars’ writ, where he could be himself, and Fingolfin could grow freely into maturity. He looked down. ‘What didst thou do last year at this festival?’  
  
Fingolfin blinked up at him, frowned. ‘Nothing. I think I was asleep, mostly.’  
  
‘But thou doth not feel sleepy now?’  
  
‘I wish I did. It is just so _dull_.’ Feelingly. ‘And four days more of it.’  
  
Fëanor crouched down. ‘I will tell thee what we will do: when we are age we will send representatives, as the Maia represent the Valar. We will not come ourselves.’  
  
‘Yes!’ Fingolfin bounced excitedly, then: ‘But that is years and years away for me. Thou art almost of age.’  
  
‘Those years will pass, I promise.’  
  
‘I want thee to tell me more stories about true Outer Lands.’ Excitement bubbled up again.

‘Not here.’ Fëanor cast a glance over his shoulder at the statue of Námo, ominous and vulpine. ‘When we get back.’  
  
  
  
The Festival proved as mindlessly dull as Fëanor had predicted, and there was no further chance of running into the gardens with Fingolfin. Indis kept her son close to her skirts, ensuring he mingled only with children his own age, while Finwë closed his arm about Fëanor’s and lead him around the notable families. A succession of lovely girls, silk-clad, flower-scented, flocked around him and gave him the full benefit of wide, beautiful eyes. Fëanor had nothing against them, but resented being shown off by his own father like a prize bull. And the nobles, parading their daughters before him, were equally complicit in this ridiculous farce.  
  
It had not been this way in Cuiviénen. Suddenly he felt as if there was not enough air to breathe. He wanted to gasp, loosen the high neck of his tunic, and excused himself striding through the crowd. Finwë’s displeasure felt like a weight on his back.  
  


 

 

OooOooO

 

 

Master Mahtan accepted Fëanor’s as an apprentice at his workshop, though Fëanor could not help the feeling he was being punished for his mild rebellion at the Festival. Finwë, although he did not speak of it, was cool toward him in the days following, and Fingolfin was set to study more and longer. In the evenings, Indis or a maid were with him, and so there was no chance to resume his storytelling.

Mahtan was a big man, muscled from his craft, with a mane of reddish hair that his daughter had inherited. She too, was muscled, and her skill lay in sculpture. Father and daughter were both deep-voiced and scant-worded. It was oddly restful although Fëanor, absorbed, rarely noticed either of them once involved in his set tasks. He worked long after the other artisans had left the rooms, returning late to the palace and rising early to return.

 

 

 

 

He came awake with a start, a gasp of breath, staring at the ceiling where the images from his dream seemed to linger for a moment, like bright shadows: Young men, their faces clear as a painting, yet more vivid, copper haired and black and creamy gold. They were turned toward him, smiling, loving. The sense of love was strange and wonderful, close enough to grasp, to touch. His lips were shaped to say their names. And then...

Fire, burning, _pain._ The smell of charred meat, hair. The faces that watched him twisting into an anguish of grief...A cry _Father_!

He pressed a hand to his heart which galloped under his breastbone, closed his eyes.

Father...

 

 

 

 

‘Thou art quiet today, my Lord?’

He shrugged. ‘Just busy.’

Nerdanel placed a cup of light wine on the bench. ‘Clearly. Thou shouldst rest or ruin what thou art creating. Thou shouldst know that.’

She was right, of course. Fëanor cast her a rueful glance of acknowledgment, took the wine and thanked her. She smiled and drew a stool forward. ‘Father says if thou wouldst like to take the evening meal with us, thou art welcome. It grows late.’

‘Please thank Mahtan, but I always return home. They are accustomed to me missing the family meals by now.’ He frowned at the ring on the bench.

‘It is beautiful,’ Nerdanel said. ‘A gift?’

‘Yes. Ingwë has been High King of the Elves for fifty years, and the Valar have... _invited_ us to the celebration.’ No invitation from Ilmarin was anything other than a command.

‘She rose from the stool, gave the ring a closer inspection. ‘How hast thou done that? There is a light within the stone.’ She reached out a finger and he nodded that she could touch it. ‘It almost feels warm.’

‘Wouldst thou have me give away my secrets?’ But he smiled a little. The truth was he did not know himself, not really, except that this had been the image in his mind as he faceted the gem, a sapphire that was _more_ , that glowed with its own light and rendered the deep blue denser and richer, a match for Ingwë’s eyes.

‘Oh, thou art full of secrets, Prince Fëanor.’ She moved on to where another gem was half-finished. ‘And _that_ is lovely. Another gift?’

He said, with a half-smile. ‘Yes. Another gift.’

‘The gift is all thine.’ She unbound her hair from the scarf that held it in a loose bun, shook it down. ‘There is genius in thee. We have all seen it, here.’

‘I still have much to learn.’ He hesitated. ‘Nerdanel, dost thou ever dream of the future?’

‘Dreams?’ She repeated. ‘As with foresight?’ He nodded. ‘No, then. Daydreams only. Dost thou?’

He shrugged again, shook his head. But the sight of her hair had jolted him out of preoccupation. The men in the dream, three of them with copper-coloured hair... It was rare, that shade, he had only ever seen Mahtan and Nerdanel who bore it. Those men, he knew them with an instinct deeper than knowledge. They were his blood, his bone. His sons. Sons meant a mother. A mother with red hair? But the thought was ludicrous. Nerdanel was a nice enough person; he could even say he liked her, and he liked few. She was talented, easy to talk to, but he no more desired to bed her than he did her father. Again, that sense of being choked, of panicking, seized him. He drained the wine, turned away from her and set his workbench in order.

 

 

Two days later, Aulë came to the forge. Fëanor had only seen him during festivals, and immediately his hackles went up. The Valar was brawny, heavily muscled about the shoulders, with a thick waist and huge thighs. He tended to stand too close to one, the heavy musk of his body overwhelming. While Mahtan and Nerdanel bowed, and the other apprentices folded to their knees, Fëanor inclined his head, then raised it to look up into the dark eyes.

Aulë had come, he announced, to see Mahtan’s new apprentice, of whom he had heard much.

 _Hast thou indeed, and from whom_?

Fëanor suspected Aulë of laying the flattery on rather thick, but he could no more turn away from knowledge than he could stop breathing, and soaked up everything he was taught. For all Aulë’s overblown personality, his too-loud voice, he was a skilled tutor and they certainly shared the same dedication to this chosen craft. Fëanor forgot to rest, to eat, unless or until Nerdanel or one of Mahtan’s servants brought him food into the workshop, and he felt neither hunger nor weariness for days. Often he was the last one to leave, the first to arrive despite the fact some of the apprentices slept in dormitories next to the workshops. The time passed so quickly, that he was surprised when his father _reminded_ him that the celebration of Ingwë’s High Kingship was a mere two days away.

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I have fashioned a gift for him.’

‘Yes?’ His father looked startled, then pleased. Relieved. Ingwë would receive many gifts, of course, but by this time, Finwë had begun to take an interest in Fëanor’s talent, even encourage it.

_Naturally, father, since Aulë has taken me under his mentorship, it would not look well for thee to ignore it._

At least this festival was a short affair; they would remain only one night before returning and, as the invitation extended solely to the noble houses, the journeys to and from would be swifter.

He had not seen Fingolfin in weeks, and the boy stared at him searchingly as they mounted in the palace ward. Behind Finwë’s back, Fëanor smiled, winked and Fingolfin’s face changed like sunlight flying across a meadow. Although the first half of the trek separated them, when they stopped in the huge waystation there was enough bustle for Fëanor to meet his half-brother’s eyes and flick a glance upward.

Finwë and Indis were relaxing with the nobles after supper, and Fingolfin had been sent to bed. Fëanor, pleading lack of sleep these last nights, soon followed, stopping first to retrieve something from his own room.

Only one lamp burned in Fingolfin’s chamber, and he was awake, sitting up in bed, a book over his knees. When Fëanor entered, he was already looking toward the door, eyes enormous and brilliant in the soft light. He pushed back the covers, scrambled out, and almost jumped on Fëanor, clinging.  
‘I have _missed_ you!’

‘Sorry.’ And he was. ‘I have been working. But I have something for thee.’ He had not forgotten Fingolfin, the only person to ever share his secrets, even in the intensity of learning. Fingolfin was one of the few people he felt close to, and they shared a common blood. ‘Sit down.’

He placed the box on the bed. He had fashioned it out of silver, the pattern on the top set with tiny diamonds and sapphires in the shape of waving flames. In his mind, he called the design _Starfire_. Fingolfin’s lips parted a little and he looked up.

‘Open it.’

The princely circlet nestled on a bed of pale silk. It was of white-gold, the band simple and unadorned, save for the starfire motif picked out in sapphires along each rim.  
The centre, fashioned to dip down between the brows, flashed and shimmered with an exquisitely cut blue diamond, oval in shape and the size of a pigeon’s egg. It had taken Fëanor long to cut each tiny facet, and as he worked, he had seen, in his mind, the light in Fingolfin’s eyes that no gem, however rare, could hope to duplicate. After he had finished, the diamond shone with that same luminous brilliance.  
  
Fingolfin’s mouth opened as he lifted it out. ‘For me? Truly?’

‘Who else? Here, let me put it on thee.’ He settled the circlet on Fingolfin’s brow, who looked up, as if expecting a judgement. Fëanor experienced an odd sensation, a flash in his mind, words: _Most proud and valiant of the Elven-kings of old._ *  
  
‘It looks beautiful on thee.’ But it was Fingolfin who adorned the circlet, in truth. He held up the underside of the box, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and Fingolfin, his young face grave, looked at his reflection, touched the centre-stone. ‘It glows, Fëanor! It shines.’  
  
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I wanted it to.’  
  
‘Fëanor!’ Fingolfin knelt up and leaned forward, flinging his arms about Fëanor’s neck. ‘Do not leave me again!’ It was a command, but unlike the orders issued from the Valar, Fëanor wanted to obey this one. His throat shut, hot and tight, at the words, the feel of the arms. ‘I know thou wilt marry soon,’ Fingolfin said. ‘But until —‘  
  
‘I will not marry soon!’  
  
Fingolfin drew back. ‘Truly? But mother and father say—‘  
  
‘Do they?’ Heat seared through his veins. He needed to speak to his father, and that soon. But now, with Fingolfin regarding him, he slammed down on his anger. ‘I will not leave thee,’ he said, and it had the shape and taste of a vow in his mouth. _Though fire and blood and doom come between us, I will never leave thee._  
  
  
  


 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

* The Silmarillion.


	4. ~ Flowering Friendship, Desperate Measures ~

  
  
  


 

**~ Flowering Friendship, Desperate Measures ~**

 

 

 

 

~ When Fingolfin came down the next morning, dressed as a prince in sapphire and black, he wore the circlet on his brow and his chin was tilted in pride. Finwë’s brows went up, and he immediately glanced at Fëanor, while Indis’ lips compressed.

‘A small gift,’ Fëanor said with a smile full of challenge. ‘It is not long now until Fingolfin’s begetting day.’

‘True,’ Finwë agreed. ‘It is very fine. I hope Fingolfin has thanked thee.’

Fingolfin bowed. ‘I do thank thee, Fëanor.’

‘Very nice,’ Indis said coolly.

Fëanor cast her a look. _One of these days, madam, thou art going to explain why thou doth hate me._ It did not trouble him, but he was curious to know the reason.

 

 

Although it was Ingwë’s celebration the Valar could not resist using the occasion to direct the homage toward themselves; thus (again) the guests were shown into the Throne Hall. This time Ingwë was at least upright, rather than looking as though he was about to fall asleep. He sat on a throne-like chair at the foot of the dais where he received his gifts. He had never married, as far as Fëanor knew; his daughter, Anairë* had been born in Endor, and she stood to his left, looking like a porcelain doll in her white robes. As her name suggested, she was reputed to be pious and certainly looked as if she were trying to outdo even her father in worship of the Valar.

After Finwë and Indis had greeted Ingwë and presented their gift (handed to him by Fingolfin), Fëanor stepped forward.  
He gave little thought to clothes, preferring comfort over flamboyance; his dark tunic and breeches were almost severe in comparison with the bursts of colour around him, and Ingwë, a swan in his whiteness. Nevertheless, the High King straightened in his chair, lovely eyes widening from their sleepy complacence.

Fëanor proffered the the box, all beaten gold and whorled with sapphires.  
‘Greetings, Ingwë on this day. I hope thou wilt receive this small gift from my hands, and fashioned, too, by mine own hands.’

Ingwë inclined his head. ‘We thank thee, Prince Fëanor. We have heard of thy skills, even here.’ He opened the box, and could not contain the upward flick of his brows as the beautiful gem snared the light and blazed a dense, rich blue.

‘It matches the colour of thine eyes,’ Fëanor smiled slowly into them. And Ingwë flushed, thoroughly and delightfully. ‘I hope thou wilt think of me,’ he added intimately, ‘when thou doth wear it.’

Ingwe, fumbling a little, blush deepening, drew the ring forth. It fitted on the third finger of his right hand, drawing attention to the long white fingers. Hard to imagine those hands had ever bent a bow, thrown a hunting knife, skinned a fallen deer. Murmurs of appreciation went up as he turned the ring back and forth.

‘It is beautiful. Thy skill has not been exaggerated. My thanks.’

Fëanor moved away, catching sight of his father’s face, the frown between his brows. He winked at Fingolfin, whose solemn face lightened, and sat down to endure the rest of the day. It was food for thought at least. Somewhere under that enamel finish, Ingwë could be jolted. But why was he —still — so controlled?

Fëanor was sure that his theory about the dew was correct, but while he saw changes in the Noldor (a worse temper mostly, including in himself) the Vanyar seemed more or less the same. Perhaps there was a small change (and maybe that ability to blush was proof of it) but once the Vanyar had been as free, as individual, as the Noldor or Teleri. He propped his chin on his fist, and thought, blocking out the annoying drone of the poets. It was a deliberately casual pose which he knew would annoy, which was precisely why he did it. From above his head, the weight of the the Valars’ gaze was like an intense cold, threatening to crawl into his skull. Without haste, he raised his head, looked into Manwë’s eyes, cold as the snows of Taniquetil and wondered how anyone could believe this creature benign. There was no compassion in that unblinking stare, no kindness, nothing to connect with, certainly nothing to admire or worship.

Fëanor met that frigid glare and held it, his mind blooming anger, contempt, resistance. He sat back, folded his arms, propped one ankle over his knee, not looking away until little scars of temper appeared on the unlined brow. At that he half-smiled.

Manwë rose to speak of Ingwë’s obedience, his faithful adherence to the laws, as if Ingwë were a favourite dog, Fëanor thought, and holding him up as the perfect example of a Quendi, whom all should emulate out of love and reverence. Fëanor would have ignored the sermon in favour of something more interesting, like — examining his boot or the floor, if it had not irritated him too much to shut it out. He turned his head to look at Fingolfin who was trying not to wriggle, and Fingolfin looked up with such a long-suffering _Please help me get out of here_! expression in his eyes that Fëanor almost laughed aloud. He completely sympathised and winked at his half-brother. The pressure of cold lifted.

When the homily at last ended, and the guests rose, Fëanor was already at the great doors before most were on their feet. He looked back, waiting, and Fingolfin broke from his parent’s side like a hawk loosed from the falconer’s wrist. He slipped a hand into Fëanor’s and they ran, pausing only to wrap some cold meat and fruit in napkins. Fëanor, after one swift thought, took a carafe of nectar from the table.  
  
‘I wish there was somewhere else to go,’ Fingolfin said, but smiling up at Fëanor. ‘These gardens are...’  
  
‘Peculiar, yes, all Ilmarin is.’  
  
They did not go far, finding a seat under an enormous spread of ferns that grew taller than a man and offered at least a little shade from the pitiless white light. Fëanor spread out their meal and they ate for a while in silence.  
  
‘This is much better than being with the others,’ Fingolfin bit into a plum.  
  
‘I know.’ Fëanor eyed the nectar thoughtfully, and took a sip. Clear, tart and icy, the lingering oppression that banded his head retreated still further.  
_It must the the Valar then. They are like this drink was, but more concentrated, and Ingwë absorbs that all the time, like some form of poison. Dulling him. Dumbing him._ He passed the flask to Fingolfin. _But what can one do about that but leave Valinor?_  
  
It was not a new idea. Since reading that mysteriously vanished book, he had yearned to see the lands where the Quendi had awakened, dangerous or no. Sometimes he woke at night with the scent of those faraway lands around him, pine and cold water, and cool flowers. He began to talk about them: mountains against a backdrop of stars, deep blue lakes, misty forests, rivers winding through lush green meadows, moors purple with heather and loud with the call of grouse, the fall of bronze and yellow leaves in the gentle fall of the year. Fingolfin gazed at him with eyes that outshone the diamond in his circlet, his lips parted, drinking it all in. He shifted closer to Fëanor.  
‘I want to go there,’ he confided earnestly. ‘Fëanor, let us go, when we are older! The Teleri can sail us there in their swan ships.’ He curled one arm through Fëanor’s. ‘It would be the most splendid adventure. And we could be free!’  
  
‘Yes,’ Fëanor said slowly. _We could be free. We will never be free, here._ ‘I want to go there, too.’  
  
‘Wait for me to grow up!’ Fingolfin clutched his arm. ‘Promise me! Do not go without me.’  
  
‘Yes, Fingolfin.’ He smiled. ‘I will wait.’  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The repercussions began as soon as they returned home, as Fëanor had known they would. Commanded into his father’s presence the next morning, he met a face of frowning displeasure and was informed that he must begin, very soon, to look about him for a wife.

‘Oh yes, must I? And whom?’

Finwë spread his hands. ‘Surely there are enough beautiful women in Tirion.’ And with a clumsy attempt at friendly teasing that Fëanor found unsettling: ‘Are there no ladies thou art meeting, in secret perhaps...? Oh, I do not disapprove. Thou art young and —‘

‘No-one.’

His father looked irritated at the interruption. He abandoned the false cheeriness and his face set in stony lines. ‘Then I would suggest thou open thine eyes a little more. Thou must know that as High Prince thou hast the pick of any unmarried lady, and thou art of age soon —‘

Fëanor took a deep breath, let it go with an effort. ‘Listen to me, father, and listen well. There is no-one and I do not wish to be wed, and even as King thou canst not _command_ me to marry.‘ Fëanor raised his voice just shy of a shout. ‘Did anyone command _thee_?’

‘It was not the same, then! Thou hast obligations—‘

‘So what of the precious _Laws_ , then?’ Fëanor demanded. ‘That we fall in love and wed once, for all our lives. _I_ am not in love, and that entirely leaves out the fact that it is possible, by thine own admission, to love more than once.’

‘Everyone in Valinor is married,’ Finwë said flatly. ‘Thou wilt not be the exception to the Law.’

‘Damn the Laws!’ Fëanor slammed a hand I down on the desk. ‘I am not even sure that I am in any way attracted to women. So now what?’  
  
Finwë went absolutely white. Frozen. A shudder ripped through him. He leaned across the desk, voice lowering. ‘It matters nothing. And thou must never say such a thing, never even think it.’  
  
‘Why?’ Fëanor flung at him. ‘Indis and my mother loved, thou hast admitted it, and so why should not I desire a male?’  
  
Finwë’s hand shot out, grasped the collar of his tunic, half-dragging Fëanor across the table. ‘If thou wert to sin thus, the Valar would take thee away. No-one would ever see thee again.’ He spoke through his teeth, tight, hard, but fear came off him like heat. ‘We lived in ignorance, filth, like rutting swine. We did not know it and so the Valar forgave us, gave us another chance to live righteously—‘

‘Take thy hand from me.’ Fëanor drove his fingers made strong from his work into his father’s wrist, so that that grip loosened and fell away. He breathed hard, straightened his tunic. ‘How canst thou believe such lies? How canst thou swallow them down and it not choke thee? And how canst thou regurgitate it so glibly? Dost thou berate Indis day after day for her _sin_? Or is it thyself, father, that thou art condemning? Didst _thou_ find pleasure in a man, hmm?’  
  
Finwë’s other hand cracked against his face. ‘Shut thy mouth, and shut it _now_.’  
  
Fëanor’s face burned from the blow, but he did not move back, staring into his father’s eyes. ‘Thou art no king,’ he stated. ‘Look at thee. Thou art _afraid_. Living in fear that one wrong move, one wrong step will bring thy _merciful_ Masters down on thee. Thou hast said it thyself: they would make me disappear for desiring a man.’  
  
‘Not down on me, Fëanor. But on thee, yes.’ He spoke through his teeth.  
  
He sneered. ‘Well, that will be one less thing for thee to worry about then, will it not?’  
  
‘Fëanor, thou canst not understand—‘  
  
‘Oh, I understand well enough. Thou didst bring the Noldor here for safety, but the price of that was everything we were, everything we are and could be.’ He spun on his heel.  
  
‘Do not thou walk away from me!’  
  
‘I will walk away from anyone I do not respect!’  
  
‘Fëanor, it is thy begetting day in two days and Manwë himself—‘  
  
‘And a wonderful celebration it will be, I am sure,’ Fëanor whirled back. ‘Please pass on my compliments to the master of slaves, for that is what he is, father, and thou hast all but said it. _I_ shall not be there.’  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

He was pushing, he knew, and had achieved his aim. A year ago, Finwë would not have lost his temper. The fog that had wrapped the Elves was thinning day by day. Looking back, he could see it in little things: laughter, explosions of anger or irritation; in short, more _emotion_. Fingolfin choosing to be with him, Finwë’s anger, little parenthesis of worry or concern around Indis’ mouth when she looked at him. He could not understand her antipathy. She had loved Míriel — or was that the very reason? She had loved Míriel, who had died soon after birthing him. Some things were that simple. The alteration of the dew...

Because such a thing could not serve the Valar, Fëanor was beginning to believe the Elves did have an unknown ally, but he did not know whom that ally might be. The same one who placed the book in the library, then taken it away unobserved, who had enough power to change the mind-dulling properties in the nectar. Yavanna had created the trees, the other Valar lending some of their power, while Nienna had watered the mound of Ezellohar with her tears. Any-one with the power to essentially alter what the Trees were, held more power than all of them.

There was only one being who could match them: the Creator. The Valar called him Eru and said little save that Arda was born from his thought.

But if it was Eru, why would he hide?

Fëanor was in no mood to go to Mahtan’s house today; he feared setting the hand of anger to his work. He strode to the kitchens, where a flustered servant packed him fruit, bread, cheese, a flask of wine. The cook came forward with fresh-baked honey-cakes and Fëanor thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, a salutation she had earned from a much younger Fëanor when she found him curled up in a corner in frustrated tears.

He had decided to go down to the horse pastures, the woods that surrounded them. There was a pool he liked to bathe in and lay under the trees after. But first...

The view from the schoolroom was deliberately designed not to distract a student: shrubs and ornamental trees grew close; there were no sweeping panoramas as from the bedchambers or salons. The long windows were open to the breeze that blew up through the Calacirya, tempering Laurelin’s heat, and the room was quiet. Fëanor could see the tutor sitting at his desk, absorbed in reading, and moved around until Fingolfin was in view, studiously writing.

Fëanor had never minded studying every day, but thought play was necessary in the life of a child. Not that he had ever played, or not with other children, but he had left his studies to walk, to go to the athletes field, and had enjoyed swimming on the rare occasions Finwë visited Alqualondë.

Searching around, he found a small polished pebble and, taking aim, tossed it through the open windows. It hit Fingolfin gently on the arm and he started, looking around. Fëanor jerked his head.

Fingolfin’s face lit up, but he glanced ahead to the tutor’s table and made a subtle ‘wait’ gesture with one hand.

It was not long until the midday meal, and Fëanor sat in the shade of a flowering bush. As the noonday bell tolled, Fingolfin dashed out of the long windows, half-laughing. ‘Where art thou going?’

‘Down to the meadows.’

‘Good!’ He slid a hand into Fëanor’s as they passed through the streets, quieter now with families at meal, down the shining quartz steps of the city, where the wind gusted at them, and onto the paved road to Alqualondë. Where the road branched north and south, they took the left hand route

The horses, of Oromë’s stock, were pastured along the banks of a clear river where the rough rolling hills tumbled northward. There were foals, grazing long-legend beside their mothers. Finwë’s prime stallion, Alcarin, a huge white beast, kept watch, raising his head now and then, cat-like ears flickering. The younger males had formed their own group and fed well away from the mares. Half-wild, these horses, and proud, but they would carry an Elf they trusted and loved.

The stallion whickered at them, pushed his velvety muzzle into their hands. Fëanor sliced an apple in half, gave one portion to Fingolfin and they fed him.

‘Father says I can have one of his foals when I come of age,’ Fingolfin said, patting the muscled neck.

‘He promised me one as well. But I think I will leave him free to roam. I have so little time to spare.’

They walked unhurriedly through the woodland to the pool Fëanor’s had often escaped to as a child. Surrounded by stately trees, a few water lilies starring its surface, it was perfectly clear with a firm, sandy bottom. They shed their clothes and swam, cavorted like otters, a rare time of play for Fëanor. Their laughter rang across the water, into the woods as they splashed and raced and then floated on their backs.

Laurelin was waning as they sat on the bank to dry, and Fëanor brought out the food and wine, which he had placed in the pool to keep cool. They ate and drank in silence, sipped the wine. Fingolfin lay back and spread his arms out on the soft grass.  
‘I wish we could do this every day.’

Fëanor smiled. ‘I hope we can do it again. They are making thee study too hard.’

‘I have more work set me,’ Fingolfin agreed. ‘But if I finish all the work quickly, I will be able to leave the schoolroom _sooner._ ’

Fëanor laughed. ‘There’s a thought,’ he said. ‘Wilt thou be in trouble for coming here? I should have asked before —‘  
  
Fingolfin turned to lay on his stomach. ‘I would have come anyway, dost thou not know that?’ He put his head on his folded arms. A small bird peeped from among the trees. Stillness came down on the glade, stilling the bright water, the gentle breeze.  
  
  
  
He was dreaming and knew he was dreaming. A man was walking quickly across a wild, lovely land where snow lay like melting seafoam under the trees, and patches of grass showed brilliant green. He could smell the air, the crackling white scent of melting snow, a fierce, urgent greenness that spoke of growth, of _life_. A great braid of black hair fell down the man’s back to his knees, swaying with his long, light stride. A cloak was rolled up, strapped to his backpack. He wore soft leathers, a belt around slim hips, from which the hilts of two knives protruded. Fëanor could see only his back, but was sure that if the man turned, he would know him.  
  
And then the man did turn, quick as a predator, as if he felt eyes on him and, even in the dream, Fëanor experienced a frisson of pure shock. Of recognition. He had never seen him before, and yet he knew him, because he was very like Finwë. But there were differences too: a certain expression, a more definite cast to the lovely features, as if he were formed out of a harder metal. And there was passion, deep and dark and restless as the sea; a high look like an eagle’s in the carriage of his head, the set of the wide shoulders, the farseeing brilliance of his eyes, shocking as polished silver between long black lashes.  
  
Fëanor thought: _He looks like Fingolfin._ And then: _And me._  
  
In his dream form, Fëanor moved closer, reached out a hand that he knew was there, but could not see, and touched him.  
  
  
  
He woke with a start, sitting up, looking into Fingolfin’s eyes. Without need of words, he knew that Fingolfin, too had dreamed the man.  
  
‘Who was he?’  
  
‘I do not know.’  
  
‘Fëanor he was walking in the Outer Lands! In Endor!’ His eyes gleamed. ‘I saw them! I really _saw_ them, and they were just as thou didst tell me. And that man was one of the Elves who live there. He must be!’  
  
‘Maybe. Yes.’ _But why did he look so like us? Because father had a brother, once_. And he had died? Was that why Finwë never spoke of him?  
  
‘Come,’ he held out his hand. ‘We should get back.’  
  
‘Yes, but Fëanor, we have to find him! This was a prophetic dream.’ Fingolfin was practically dancing.  
  
‘I think it was, yes. Fingolfin, tell no-one about this. Let it be between us. The time will come when we leave this place.’

Fingolfin nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, Fëanor. I will keep it a secret.’  
  
They dressed, packed the remains of their lunch, sharing a last drink of the wine and a conspiratorial smile. As they left the lake, they found the great Alcarin gleaming silver-white in Telperion’s light as he cropped near the trees. He raised his head and walked over, muscles fluid under the sleek coat, and snorted.  
  
‘I think he wants us to ride him.’ Fingoflin’s eyes shone brilliant with excitement. ‘But no-one does, not even father!’  
  
Fëanor patted the silken hide, let his fingers trail down to the withers and strong flank.  
Alcarin whickered gently as though in encouragement, and Fëanor placed one hand, then mounted from a standing jump. The stallion stood like a rock, ears pricked down toward Fingolfin. Fëanor leaned down and offered his hand. Delightedly, Fingolfin took it and a moment later was settled behind Fëanor.  
  
With hardly any guidance, Alcarin moved forward, broke into a trot, a smooth canter then a floating, effortless gallop that devoured the green earth like fire. Fëanor heard Fingolfin’s laugh as the wind streamed in their hair and the gleaming towers of Tirion, with Mindon Eldeliéva shining high over the city, grew closer. A pity; Fëanor wanted to ride away from it, escape from all Laws and expectations and the cold, unhuman eyes of the Valar.  
  
Alcarin came to a halt at the foot of the crystal steps, and Fëanor slipped to the ground, Fingolfin beside him. They fussed the stallion, gave him the last of a broken honey-cake and then watched as he wheeled away, racing back toward the pastures.  
  
‘That was the _best_ day I have ever had,’ sighed Fingolfin contentedly, as they climbed the shallow steps. ‘I wish it need not end.’  
  
Fëanor smiled down at him. ‘Yes.’  
  
‘I wish...but it will be thy begetting day soon and then thou wilt be married, and we will never do anything like that again.’  
  
‘I will _not_ be marrying.’ Fëanor heard the steel in his own voice.  
  
‘But father and mother say—‘  
  
‘I care nothing for what they say! They cannot force me to marry, and I am in love with no woman.’  
  
Fingolfin smiled wistfully up at him. ‘I will not get married either,’ he said. ‘And then we can spend more time together. When I am of age no-one can tell me not to—‘ He bit the words off, blushing vividly.  
  
Fëanor’s anger welled, but he had no intention of taking it out on Fingolfin or discussing with him his mother’s enmity. He squeezed the hand in his, drew them down an alley between two tall mansions.  
‘I know,’ he said reassuringly. ‘And I will speak to Indis as soon as we are home.’  
  
Fingolfin pulled back. ‘I do wish thou wouldst not.’ He sounded curiously adult and then, offering information without being prompted: ‘I hear them arguing about thee sometimes.’ In the shadow his face looked pale and pinched. Fëanor crouched down.  
‘I have known for a long time that Indis does not like me.’  
  
Fingolfin but his lip. ‘But _why_? And anyhow, _I_ decided to come with thee today. Thou didst not _force_ me.’  
  
‘I know, but as thine elder, it was my responsibility.’ He put a finger under Fingolfin’s chin. ‘Do not worry. Whatever happens, no-one can keep us apart.’  
  
The strained expression melted away like the first glow of Laurelin. ‘Promise?’ There was a little skip in his step as they walked on.  
  
No guards had been sent to find them; what harm could possibly come to them in Valinor? but when they crossed the square and entered the court before the palace, Fëanor saw the two men stationed at the great doors look sharply at them before bowing their heads.  
The hall was empty of the bustle of the day, courtiers and nobles returned to their homes, only a few servants moving leisurely in the time before sleep.  
  
They went up the huge steps which branched left and right, taking the right, that lead toward Indis’ public and private chambers. The doors were closed, and Fëanor felt Fingolfin’s hand squeeze his convulsively. He returned it with what he hoped was assurance, before knocking and entering.  
  
Indis was seated like a graceful statue in a deep chair, a house robe of blue and silver lapping her feet and her hair gathered in one thick braid over her shoulder. She rose as they entered.

‘We went to the pastures, madam,’ Fëanor said without apology. ‘And fell asleep. The fault is not Fingolfin’s.’  
  
‘Fingolfin,’ Indis said. ‘Go to thy room and to bed. I need to speak with Fëanor alone.’  
  
A mulish look hardened Fingolfin’s mouth. ‘But mother—‘  
  
‘I said _now_ , Fingolfin. I will talk to thee tomorrow.’  
  
Fingolfin snapped a look up at Fëanor, who nodded infinitesimally, withdrew his hand, bowed and left the room, his head held high, defiant. Fëanor smothered a grin, turned back to face Indis. He did not wait for her to speak.  
‘I know thou doth not like me, and do not want Fingolfin and I to share any friendship,’ he said straightforwardly and saw her eyes flicker. ‘But he will come to no harm with me. And so I would ask thee, lady: Why thinks’t thou he would?’  
  
A blush hit her cheeks. She made a sharp movement with her whole body, twisting it aside. Her breast rose and fell.  
‘Very well.’ She took a long breath. ‘Thou art dangerous.’  
  
‘Am I? Why?’  
  
The flush deepened. ‘Thy mother called thee Spirit of Fire.’  
  
He shrugged. ‘And so?’  
  
‘I have always seen it, and more and more this past year.’ She bit her lip. ‘No, I do not want Fingolfin to be with thee. I fear for him.’  
  
Impatiently, he said, ‘I would never hurt him! Am I not his blood?’  
  
‘And wert thou not Míriel’s blood?’ she flashed back. ‘She was like a tree coming into full leaf bearing thee, and after, it was as if all the life left her, and she withered and _died_.’ The last sharp word fell into emptiness. She clapped a hand over her mouth with a shudder from head to heel.  
  
A rising storm of emotions filled his head. ‘So thou doth think I killed her?’ His nails bit into his palms.  
  
‘Not knowingly.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘But yes.’  
  
He wanted to leave the room, to go somewhere and be quite alone, where his feeling could rise freely, but he could not.  
‘Then I do not know what thou wouldst have me do to redress that, lady, as I cannot roll back time and not be born! But now at least I understand thy hatred. I know thou didst love my mother.’  
  
Tears showed, a glimmering mist in her eyes. ‘I do not say it was thy fault, Fëanor, but nevertheless.’ She swallowed. ‘Keep away from Fingolfin. He is young and soon thou wilt be married and have other concerns—‘  
  
‘I will _not_.’  
  
‘Thou must!’  
  
‘Why.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘And what if I do not desire women? What if I desire men? After all,’ as her eyes widened, ‘didst not thou love my mother and lay with her?’  
  
She made a movement with her hands. ‘Yes, we all saw what an exhibition thou didst make, flirting with Ingwë—‘  
  
‘Well, he would be very beautiful if he were not such a wax doll—‘  
  
‘It is an abomination to lay with one of thine own gender,’ she said desperately. ‘we knew no better before we came here—‘  
  
‘Or didst thou know better than to swallow the _shit_ that comes out of the Valars’ mouths?’ he hissed and she gaped at him. ‘Dost thou regret it, regret _her_? Well? What was she, a mistake?’  
  
‘ _No_!’ The tears spilled over, streaming down her face. ‘Never! She was — brilliant, beautiful, I loved her! And I had to give her up for the good of our people, and I had to watch her _die_ because of _thee._ ’ She spun away from him, sat down again, covering her face. He heard gulping sobs. Appalled, he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but she knocked it away.  
‘Get out! Go away. Leave me alone!’  
  
Fëanor stared at her then turned, left the room and went to his own, where he sat on the edge of his bed and, like Indis, put his face into his hands — and wept.  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

On the morning of his coming of age, Fëanor rose early and went straight to the forge. He had no intention of staying at home. Nerdanel expressed concern when they stopped to eat.

‘It is no matter,’ he said. ‘But I am not making that damned journey up to Taniquetil to sit in boredom while Manwë preaches me into a stupor.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I cannot say I blame thee, but the king will be furious.’

‘He already is,’ Fëanor muttered, taking a drink of cool ale. ‘These traditions and observations...’

‘Better not to speak too much of that.’ She cast an eye toward the other apprentices. He shrugged, but nodded. He might say as he chose, but this was Mahtan’s house.

He was still at his bench when the apprentices left as Telperion began to wax. Nerdanel, changed from her workday gear into a deep green gown, came into the workshop.  
‘Fëanor, if thou art not going home, my parents say thou art quite welcome to dinner.’ She frowned. ‘It _is_ thy coming of age _and_ begetting day, after all.’

He had tried very hard not to let the lack of any message from his father trouble him. Tried and failed. The resentment and hurt had only grown over the course of the day. He knew he had precipitated this reaction, known this might happen, and still it hurt. Jaw set, he began to tidy his work space.  
‘I thank thee,’ he said.

‘I thought thou might not wish to go home, so the cook has prepared thee a special meal,’ she said. ‘It is not the palace, but—‘

He looked up, smiling despite his mood. ‘Who cares for that? It was a kind thought.’

Suddenly, there was a tap-tap of light, running feet. He turned as Fingolfin flew into the workshop. He was flushed, hair unravelling from neat night-braids. He flew at Fëanor.  
‘I am supposed to be in bed,’ he gasped. ‘But I could _not_ without seeing thee.’ He wrapped on arm around Fëanor’s waist. The other held a polished box. ‘This is for thee. Oh, excuse me, lady.’ He bowed his head to Nerdanel who swept a reverence, smiling.

‘Fingolfin.’ Fëanor drew him to sit on a bench beside him. He did not ask what had happened at the palace; probably Fingolfin knew nothing, and he did not want to draw the boy into his troubles. ‘Thou shouldn’t not be here. But I am glad thou art.’ And he meant it. A hot, hard lump swelled in his throat.

‘Open it.’ Fingolfin watched him as he lifted the lid, shifting from one foot to another.

It was a brooch, enamel over gold, a red eight-pointed stair with each point as a wave of fire set with diamonds. One great centre stone burned amid-most. Fëanor stared at it for a long moment.

‘I made it.’ Fingolfin shuffled again. ‘I thought...I wanted an insignia for thee, and I drew it and then the metalsmith...I have been learning...’ He pressed against Fëanor’s leg, not asking if the gift pleased, but his body vibrating with the need to know that it did.  
‘I dreamed of it,’ he added. ‘A star of fire.’

‘It is lovely,’ Nerdanel moved closer. ‘Thou art a fine artist, Prince Fingolfin.’ He sent her a beaming, grateful smile.

Fëanor lifted the brooch, then he dropped his head into Fingolfin’s glossy hair, and closed his eyes. The tears pressed, scalding and desperate against his eyelids. Fingolfin threw his arms around him, holding him hard.

‘It is beautiful,’ Fëanor said, lifting his head. ‘Truly. I did not know thou wert learning this craft.’

‘I wanted to surprise thee.’ The huge eyes were starry with pleasure.

‘Thou hast done that. I will treasure this. But thou must go now, Fingolfin. I do not want thee to be in trouble.’

The smile blazed out fully, then Fingolfin kissed his cheek, held him again, bowed to Nerdanel and raced away, feet light as wings over the stones.

‘Well, someone in thy family has remembered thee,’ Nerdanel said approvingly. ‘I am glad. He is a dear boy.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Fëanor murmured, the hurt for a moment, bathed with gratitude. He pinned the brooch to his tunic.

 

 

The meal should have been quiet; Mahtan’s family was not large, consisting of himself, his wife and Nerdanel. But the apprentices joined them, and the servants and soon it became a celebration, with many toasts raised to Fëanor and, once enough wine had flowed for diffidence to be forgotten, much laughter. It was a world away from the quiet, dignified meals in the palace, and he rather enjoyed the lack of ceremony, the easy conversations. While in no mood to laugh, self-exiled from his home for this night, and under a cloud for his disobedience, the atmosphere was relaxing. He was not interested in small-talk, usually keeping to himself, absorbed in work, but when one of the younger apprentices, courage bolstered with wine, approached him to ask him advice, he spent some time in conversation and was rewarded by smiles that bordered on the worshipful. The young man leaned toward him as if drinking in Fëanor’s every word and others drew close to listen. He could not pretend it did not salve his wound — a little. And Fingolfin’s gift was pinned below his shoulder, a comfort that his fingers strayed to at times.

‘Drink,’ Mahtan said jovially, raising his cup. ‘Thy coming of Age.’

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

He woke with a taste in his mouth as if he had been chewing a bitter root. His throat was parched, and even his tongue was dry. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, until he remembered that Mahtan had asked him to stay. He had a vague memory of a strong arm leading him up a flight of stairs.

He had clearly stripped off his clothes, for he was naked, and there was an odd, earthy smell in the small room. He rose, poured water from a carafe and drank, then splashed his face, grimacing and wanting a bath.  
  
It was early. He could hear servants in the kitchen, but Mahtan’s house was quiet, and the first apprentices had not yet come to the workshops. He walked home through the city, spent a long time soaking in the bath, then dressed. He was still furiously angry until his eyes lit on the brooch Fingolfin had given him. He pinned it to his fresh tunic and touched it when the furious tears burned behind his eyes.  
  
The summons from his father came in the late afternoon. He had been expecting it but went mutinously, chin raised, mouth folded shut.  
  
Finwë was not alone. Mahtan was there and Nerdanel, who sat with her hands tightly clasped, her head bowed. She glanced up as he entered, her face suffused with a blush and little glints of anger in her eyes. He looked at her in confusion. Mahtan might have decided to terminate his apprenticeship, although he could have said so the previous day, but why would he bring his daughter?  
  
Finwë rose from his seat. ‘Fëanor,’ he said, heavily. ‘I am deeply disappointed. Master Mahtan comes to me with such news to make any father sorrowful. It seems that last night, after leaving the palace, thou didst take advantage of Mahtan’s friendship and his daughter’s innocence.’  
  
Fëanor said blankly, ‘I _what_?’  
  
‘I cannot believe it of one I accepted into my home like another son,’ Mahtan said, coming to his feet. ‘Thou hast lain with my daughter, Fëanor, ruining her for any other man.’  
  
‘Art thou mad?’ Fëanor demanded. ‘Excuse me, Nerdanel, but thou knowest very well I would do no such thing.’ But then he thought of the drink poured into his cup, the strange, acrid aftertaste. He had merely thought Mahtan served poor wine.  
  
Mahtan shook his head ponderously. Fëanor’s eyes narrowed on him. ‘I was too generous with the wine,’ he sighed. ‘Thou didst seduce my daughter. I have kept the evidence of her lost virginity, the bedsheet thou didst lay on, marked with her blood and thine own seed.’ His jaw set pugnaciously. ‘I will take it before the Valar if need be.’  
  
Finwë looked as if he were swallowing something distasteful. ‘There is no need for that. We shall arrange the marriage as soon as possible.’  
  
Fëanor took a step back. ‘ _What_?’  
  
‘There is no other way,’ Finwë told him. He shrugged. ‘Thou hast deflowered her and must marry her. It is the Law.’  
  
Nerdanel shot him a strange glance under lowered brows. Fëanor turned to her, heart panicked in his chest, because he remembered nothing about last night. Except there had been that strange smell in the bedroom, that taste in his mouth.  
‘Nerdanel?’  
  
She did not look at him. ‘It is true,’ she said. ‘I left before thou wert awake.’  
  
‘Very clever,’ he said dryly. ‘Didst thou drug me?’ To Mahtan. And, his fury breaking free: ‘ _Didst thou_?’  
  
His father’s eyes widened. Mahtan backed away.  
  
‘Do not be foolish, Fëanor,’ his father barked. ‘Come, Mahtan, there is much to arrange. Fëanor, we will leave thee with thy betrothed.’  
  
Her eyes were on him holding a clear message, a weight of explanation. But it was not that which leashed his fury. It was as if a hand pressed down on his shoulder, and said, _Hush._ He turned his head, almost expecting to see someone standing behind him.  
  
When the door shut, Nerdanel rose, shook out her skirts.  
‘Yes,’ she said steadily. ‘I think there was a drug. How else to account for what happened? But I did not give it to thee, nor were thou the only one affected.’ She licked her lips. ‘An odd taste—‘  
  
‘Bitter,’ he finished for her. ‘Thou also? Dost thou remember anything?’  
  
She shook her head. ‘No, except I feel...used, a little sore, a little pain. Not much.’  
  
‘Well,’ he said bitingly, ‘A pity we cannot remember, it might have been pleasant. Art thou telling me,’ as her face opened to shocked laughter. ‘That Mahtan drugged me to get thee a husband.’  
  
Her eyes flicked to the door. She approached him, and he bent his head to meet her whisper.  
‘I do not think it was just my father, Fëanor. News has flown through Tirion of thy resistance to marriage.’ She spread her capable hands. ‘And I am older than thee, and was content enough in my single state. So —Thine own father? Indis? The Valar? Maybe all of them in collusion? I can get nothing from my father, but although he may have wished this, he would not have acted alone. He has not the wit. And I hope thou knowest me well enough to know that I would not stoop to such stratagems.’  
  
Abruptly, his anger died to a smoulder. He believed her. He had always found her honest, straightforward. To come here, under pressure, was no easy thing.  
‘I am sorry.’  
  
‘I will not say that I am. What woman would not want thee?’ She subjected him to a long look from head to heels. He was almost amused. ‘But I am sorry for the manner of it. And it could be worse.’ She added. ‘At least we have some common interests.’  
  
It was true. He did not desire her, but they were easy together, could hold conversation. And then, there was his dream....Sons. He took her hand, placed a kiss on it. His rage had all concentrated into a knot in his breast, but it was not for her. When he released it, it would be aimed straight and true at Mahtan and whomever else had colluded in this. Even his father. Especially his father. He could, perhaps, rebel against the edict, and in the Halls of Ilmarin itself, but he was not the only one involved. There was Nerdanel. He could not subject her to embarrassment and shame. She was also a victim, and what if she got with child? He took a strained breath.  
‘It is not thy fault,’ he said. ‘To be truthful, no, I would not choose to marry, but if I had to — as it seems I must — I would rather it be to thee than someone else.’  
  
She looked startled, then blushed, rather endearingly. ‘I thank thee for that. Before thou didst come, the King said that I was not the match he would have chosen for the High Prince. He meant to petition Manwë and High King Ingwë for the hand of Anairë for thee.’  
  
‘What, really?’ He put a hand over his eyes. ‘I would rather be married to a bolster.’  
  
Nerdanel chuckled richly. They looked at one another with wry smiles. His world, hopes, dreams were falling around him, his trust had been destroyed but — perhaps not _all_ his dreams. There were the sons, the beautiful sons who had (in his dream) loved him. And Nerdanel, anyhow, was not his enemy. He knew that without any doubt. They had both been betrayed, and so they would face that betrayal together and forge something from it.  
‘This is very strange,’ he said slowly and she nodded. ‘But do not think thou art not a good match for any man, be he never so high born.’  
  
‘That is kind in thee,’ she said, and raised her face for a kiss to seal the betrothal.

Fëanor gave it unhesitatingly.  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

* I always write Anairë as Vanya rather than Noldo as in some text she was, and the meaning of her name, ‘Holiest’, seems a Vanya trait rather than a Noldo one.


	5. ~ First Son (Steel and Fire) ~

  
  
  
  
**~ First Son (Steel and Fire) ~**  
  
  
  
~ The marriage would be solemnised as soon as all arrangements were in place. After, Nerdanel would move into the palace, although Fëanor had decided he would build a house away from the city in the northern hills. He would never return to Mahtan’s forge, and though Nerdanel could do as she wished, Fëanor would not acknowledge the man again. If the smith had hoped that a close relationship to the royal family would rub some of its lustre off on him, he was destined to be disappointed.  
  
Nerdanel had enthusiastically approved the idea of removing from Tirion, but until the new house was built, the couple must needs must continue to dwell in the palace. Fëanor’s chambers would be quite sufficient with its several spacious rooms and steps down to the inner garden. Nerdanel would also have a large workshop of her own, which pleased her as she had often complained of having to work around her father at home. Fëanor did not expect her to give up her craft simply because he was married and they were not lovers who wanted to spend every moment together.  
  
Fëanor leaned on the windowsill of his bedchamber (soon to be Nerdanel’s also) eyes closed, just trying to breathe through the constricting, _choking_ sensation that felt like a hand about his throat. He was suffocating, trapped. He had concealed it before Nerdanel, who had not earned his anger, but it waited like a crouching cat, to spring.  
  
When the outer door slammed open, he thought it was his father, and spun around in fury. But it was Fingolfin who burst in, ran straight at him and shouted, ‘Thou didst promised not to marry, not to leave me!’ His fists were balled, his face white but for the colour that burned on his cheekbones. His eyes blazed.  
  
‘I am not leaving,’ Fëanor snapped. ‘I am staying right here in the palace.’ At least for now.  
  
Fingolfin stared. His lips quivered. ‘But thou wilt be married. Father says being married means thou must love them more than anyone. Wilt thou love her more than me, Fëanor?’  
  
Fëanor could not speak. He knew that Fingolfin was fond of him, but love? Yet wounded love shone in his face, set tears in his eyes.  
‘Thou knowest,’ he ground out like the gall it was: ‘that everyone must be married. It is only an arrangement, Fingolfin. And thou wilt like Nerdanel.’   
He set his hands on Fingolfin’s rigid shoulders. ‘It will make no difference to my feelings for thee.’  
  
‘But thou didst _promise._ We made each other a _promise_ , Fëanor.’

‘I did not want to marry. I do _not_ want it.’ He forced down the hot words of explanation and excuse. ‘But it is one of the Laws of the Valar —‘ _Damn them, and damn my father_!  
  
‘But _why_?’ A tear traced down Fingolfin’s cheek.  
  
‘A good question.’ Something so important, a relationship that was supposed to last as near forever as made no difference, surely required a mutual attraction and love. But, although he had never paid much attention to other peoples’ marriages he realised now that he had never seen any couple who looked particularly happy together. Only in the older ones, the Unbegotten, was there any sign of affection. Little wonder, he thought grimly, if they were all thrown into marriage soon after they came of age. In Endor they had been free to love whomever they wanted, free to _choose_. He drew Fingolfin to sit on the couch, put an arm around him.  
  
‘Can we still sail to Endor?’ Fingolfin asked, and then: ‘I wish thou hadst not promised we could do those things. Thou wilt be busy, father says, and have children and we will _never_ be able to leave!’ he ended woefully.  
  
‘I have had just about _enough_ of what our father says!’ Fëanor got to his feet and Fingolfin’s eyes followed him up, eyes wide. ‘Fingolfin, I did not mean to marry. I told thee it was arranged. I could not, in all conscience, refuse it. And he told me everyone must marry.’ _Whatever it takes, eh, father_? ‘Well, I do have to; it would not be fair on Nerdanel, but it means nothing. We do not love one another. And we will go to Endor. We will.’ _I cannot foresee a future for me in this cage of Valarin Laws_.  
  
‘I will not ask thee to promise,’ Fingolfin said sadly, and came to his feet as if to leave, but suddenly he wrapped his arms around Fëanor’s waist and sobbed as if his heart were breaking. Fëanor held him, whispering that he was sorry, and he would not allow anyone to come between them, until the sobs became hiccoughs, little shudders that caught at Fingolfin’s breath. Fëanor smoothed the silken black hair as Fingolfin leaned against him, drew him back down to the couch where the boy curled up his legs.  
  
He should have guessed Finwë would not permit him to defy and deny. How could he allow his eldest son to take liberties? _And I should have been more aware. I walked right into the trap._ Looking down at Fingolfin, now curled drowsily against his chest, Fëanor knew the same would happen to him, and swore to himself he would prevent it if he could. Fingolfin would marry if he wanted, and when, not be tricked and forced into it as Fëanor had been.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
Fëanor had to wait until the evening to see his father, which did nothing for his temper. As soon as he was notified that Finwë was free, he strode into the chamber. His father looked up, his face emotionless, but there was an expression in his eyes that Fëanor could only call wary. _Good, and so thou should be._  
  
He drew a chair forward, sat down and faced Finwë over the expanse of the table.  
‘Very well executed,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Especially that part about Nerdanel not being the wife thou wouldst have chosen for me.’  
  
‘She was not,’ his father replied tightly.  
  
‘Just a little bit of spite, unrehearsed? But the rest was not unrehearsed, was it? Even our argument? Nerdanel says Mahtan does not have the wit for such a thing and I agree. But thou doth. And so does Manwë.’  
  
Finwë had adopted his ‘kingly’ face, the one he wore in Manwë’s presence and when at High Council meetings: stern, distant. It did not impress Fëanor one whit.  
‘Thou wouldst blame Lord Manwë?’ he demanded. ‘Fëanor, if thou canst not control thine actions—‘  
  
He stood up, kicking back the chair. ‘Oh, spare me! I would never bed Nerdanel, nor any woman, not from choice, and thou knowest it — and were afraid of it. What?’ He put up his brows.’Thinks’t thou I would trot up to Ilmarin and seduce Ingwë?’  
  
‘ _Fëanor_! How canst thou even jest—‘  
  
‘Who said it was a jest?’He leaned forward. ‘Listen to me, father: Whatever herb or drug that went into my wine last night, I hope thou hast a supply of it, because — and correct me if I am wrong — but if I am going to satisfy someone in bed, I need a stiff cock, do I not? Well, I have no desire for my wife-to-be. None. She is a friend, that is all. But I will, I assume, have to service her since the bloody _Laws_ dictate she cannot find pleasure with another lover. So get me that drug before my wedding. I do not care how. Just ensure I have a supply, for I do not mean to shame her.’ He swept up a neat roll of papers and threw them into Finwë’s frozen face. ‘And do not think thou wilt be forgiven, or have heard the last of this.’  
  
‘Fëanor!’  
  
‘Enough,’ he blazed. ‘Thou hast entrapped me into marriage. Well played. And now, no more. I am of age and I am telling thee to stay out of my life henceforth.’ He stalked from the chamber. Finwë’s voice following him, raised in a shout: ‘I had no choice, thou fool! Thou didst give me none.’  
  
‘There is always a choice! And thou art too much of a coward to take it.’ He felt Finwë moving up behind him and whirled. His father came to a halt, face chalky, eyes burning dark. It surprised Fëanor that he was now a finger’s breadth taller than his father, could look down into those dark eyes.  
‘Thou art not the only Noldo in Valinor, Fëanor! I am responsible for _all_ of us. It matters nothing that thou art attracted to men.’ His face spasmed. ‘It matters nothing if Nerdanel prefers women. _All_ that matters is we show obedience to the Laws, because _I cannot save those who do not_! Art thou listening to me?’  
  
‘Oh, I hear thee.’ Fëanor showed his teeth. ‘Thou didst lead us into a prison, O High King of the Noldor, and now we are caught. But who spoke up for all our people and agreed to these unconscionable Laws? Didst thou even discuss it with them? Did they all agree?’  
  
His father’s mouth drew taut. ‘By the time we came here, there was no way back across the Great Sea.’  
  
‘There is always a way! The Teleri are mariners. The sea is in their very blood; their ships are well-nigh unsinkable.’  
  
‘Ulmo could sink them. Ossë and Uinen. And whatever thou doth think of me, I came here to _save_ our people. _Quendi_ had vanished, been taken into North. There were signs...’ He stopped, his eyes flicking away toward memory. ‘Those dark powers, they were too great. We could not fight them. We were as children—‘  
  
‘And the Valar would keep us as children.’ Fëanor turned again. ‘Obedient, unquestioning, worshipful _children._ ’  
  
‘They keep us _safe._ ’  
  
‘From what? Our own selves? And yet, if it were impossible for me to want another man, I would not be able to. If it were not within us from the time our awakening.’ He watched as his father’s face flinched again. ‘So why is it deemed to be against the Laws?’  
  
‘Thou knowest why! It is part of the Marring; all unnatural acts spring from that. The Valar must follow the vision of perfection shown to them before Time—‘  
  
‘So _they_ say. Well, I am not inclined to believe them. Easy to set forth Laws when we cannot inquire as to their provenance and legitimacy! Keep us safe?’ Fëanor mimicked. ‘Keep us under control. But there are Quendi who did not come here, who live free in Endor.’  
  
‘Barbarians, living in sin and corruption, having no laws—‘  
  
‘Really? Well, thou wert one of them once, and had two lovers and perhaps more.’ Fëanor watched him closely. ‘If it were not for the dark powers, I wonder if thou wouldst have come here?’  
  
Finwë took a deep breath. His voice came tight and thin. ‘It boots nothing to speak of it. It is the past. Now, Fëanor, the Lord Manwë commands that thy marriage be solemnised before him and the Valar on Taniquetil,’ Finwë said behind him. ‘Just as my marriage to thy mother and Indis was—‘  
  
‘No.’ Fëanor threw back his head and laughed wildly. ‘Thou and he and Mahtan may have forced me into this, but I am will not celebrate that fact.’  
  
‘It is a tradition. Fingolfin and Finarfin will likewise be wed under the eyes of the Valar.’  
  
‘Twice does not make it a tradition, father. And keep thine hands off Fingolfin,’ he added fiercely, before slamming out of the doors.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
Nerdanel announced she was with child a few days before the ceremony. She was delighted, and so was Fëanor, remembering his dream-vision of sons; it was also an excuse not to subject her to the trip up the Holy Mountain.  
  
The marriage ceremony took place in the palace, courtiers of the noble Houses gathered in all their finery, and not a few were disgruntled that the High Prince should throw himself away so shockingly on such an undistinguished woman. ( _It must be a love match. Surely not! No, it was arranged, as most were these days. But why to one who brought no noble name or indeed anything else to the marriage?_ ) The more sympathetically inclined — or with no marriageable children to dispose of — pointed out that at least the pair had something in common. Anyhow, Fingolfin and Finarfin were growing and would certainly be married as soon as they came of age. Also, it was whispered that Fëanor had pre-empted the marriage and Nerdanel was already pregnant. Sons or daughters, they too would provide a marriage opportunity in time.  
  
There was feasting and music after, although it was a stately, well-mannered affair like all such gatherings in Valinor. Fëanor ignored almost everyone and devoted his attention to his wife, not wanting her to become over-tired. He did not know how pregnancy would affect her. Indis had kept herself close with her women during those times, so Fëanor had no knowledge of how it had been for her, and did not wish to speak to her about it especially as the subject would be certain to touch that raw spot between them: Míriel’s death so soon after childbirth. Fëanor admitted it to no-one save himself, but the thought terrified him, and he lost no time in finding women to act as midwives. These were chosen intentionally from the Unbegotten who had carried and born their children in Endor. Nerdanel found his solicitude amusing. She did not intend, she said, to simply lay around in idleness; she meant to continue her work until her growing stomach made it too uncomfortable.  
  
Fingolfin, robed in princely gear, looked pale and quiet as he sat between his parents, and Fëanor glanced at him often. When he at last caught his half-brother’s eye he raised a hand, beckoning and Fingolfin slipped from his seat. He did not seem particularly enthusiastic, his young face set into oddly aloof lines, but Fëanor carried his seat from its place and set it between himself and Nerdanel, who turned to him smiling, and patted the cushion.  
  
The feast was at the relaxed stage of talking, sipping wine and nibbling sweetmeats — or it would have been relaxed, but for the fact that Finwë and Indis were more stiff and formal than usual, and the High Prince himself wore thunder on his brow. But as Fëanor tried to engage Fingolfin, he relaxed a little more. He spoke of his plan to build a house in the hills, and to invite Fingolfin when he was older. While he stung at being made to appear a liar, and did not want to make any more false promises, he was determined that Fingolfin smile and so sketched before him images of rides in the hills, mornings in the workshops, evenings in the gardens or playing music. After a time, Fingolfin’s face softened, but when he spoke it was quietly, casting glances down the table at his parents. Nerdanel raised her brow at Fëanor, who rolled his eyes expressively. She already knew that her husband’s friendship with his half-brother was not looked on by Finwë or Indis with unalloyed pleasure. It was something she professed herself unable to understand.  
  
There were other whispers circulating. Rúmil, one of Fëanor’s old tutors, was attending with his stately wife, Laurorne, who had her own opinions.  
‘This is the most peculiar wedding I ever attended,’ she murmured. ‘Who arranged it, thinks’t thou?’  
  
There were some ‘underground’ rumours from the servants that had come to Rúmil’s ears, who was known to look fondly on Fëanor. Little as it might be thought, most of the palace servants adored the High Prince who was generous, always addressed them by name and (some said) did not keep a proper distance. Neuniel, the head cook, was an especial supporter, and would not hear a word said against him. A tall, almost rawboned woman who had once hunted and cooked her own game in Endor, she ruled the great kitchens with a sharp tongue and gentle hand that could nevertheless throw a pert messenger out of her doors without effort. If a rumour concerning Fëanor did not reach her, it was not worth hearing. Mahtan’s apprentices were less reliable, as many of them were jealous and everyone knew it, but even from them no word came that the Prince had showed any special notice to Nerdanel. At the most, they might be called friends.  
  
‘Oh, the King and Mahtan, with a little nudge from higher up,’ Rúmil bit into a honeyed date. ‘Fëanor was having dangerous thoughts, it is said.’  
  
‘Yes, I guessed as much.’ His wife nodded delicately. ‘Apparently, the High Prince spent the night of his begetting day at Mahtan’s, after arguing with his father; the next thing we hear he is betrothed. And he is very clearly not in love with her.’  
  
‘Tut, my dear, people do not fall in love in Valinor.’ He sent her an infinitesimal wink. ‘We follow protocol. But what dost thou see?’  
  
Laurorne regarded the newly wedded couple for a moment. ‘Many children,’ she said at last. ‘In fact, for Valinor, an inordinate number. He will adore them, she...’ Her eyes narrowed. Rúmil waited. ‘She will bear them willingly, but not love them as he. It is he who will obsess her.’ Her long lashes dropped. She stared into her wineglass.  
  
‘That is not surprising,’ Rúmil mused. Fëanor was extraordinary. On Taniquetil, his fierce, fiery beauty outshone the Valar as a faceted diamond outshines a rough stone. _What art thou, Fëanor_?  
  
‘It will not last. Many marriages in that family will not last. They are what they are.’ She shot him a look, tapped her fingers against the crystal. ‘It seems to me, husband, that the High Prince has not been tutored in everything.’  
  
‘Indeed?’  
  
‘For instance,’ she continued dulcetly. ‘In one of our most ancient birthrights.’  
  
His breath came out in a little hiss. He said, directly into her mind: _Ósanwe? Thou knowest the Valar have forbidden it._  
  
 _And yet some come to it, my dear, by chance, do they not? Our own daughter, for instance. And there have been others._  
  
Rúmil shrugged, finished the date and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Perhaps Fëanor _would_ appreciate some advanced lessons.’  
  
Laurorne smiled into her glass. ‘I am sure he would, my dear. Thou didst always say he was most _eager_ to learn.’  
  
‘Oh,’ Rúmil smiled. ‘He is.’  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
Fingolfin had thrown his arms around Fëanor before he was sent to his bed, his slim arms clinging for a long moment. Fëanor embraced him in return, and Fingolfin reached up to kiss his cheek. When he ran off his face glowed and his eyes were too bright for a youth who was supposed to be going to sleep. Fëanor smiled after him, then returned to his wife. Not long after, they left the gathering, Nerdanel admitting to a little fatigue.  
‘It was all those dagger-stares,’ she laughed. ‘ _Most_ of the unmarried ladies wished me otherwhere.’  
  
‘Never mind them.’ He dismissed the thought, and picked her up, carrying her up the great sweep of the stares as she laughed and protested.  
  
The bedding was fresh and smelled of flowers. He left Nerdanel to undress with her women while he bathed and changed. His father had said nothing (naturally) but a phial of the pernicious drug had been left with him some days before with instructions. He did not know if his wife wanted to officially consummate their wedding, if it was wise in her condition, but took a cautious amount in wine. If she did not, he could deal with the ensuing lust himself.  
  
Nerdanel looked nervous, sitting in a glimmer of ivory silk, and this intensified as he entered the bedchamber. Her capable hands were clenched on her lap.  
‘Saila recommends we wait,’ she said, with a nod to the bed. ‘For a few weeks. And I _am_ rather tired.’  
  
Fëanor’s relief was subsumed by anxiety. ‘Does she feel something is wrong?’ He turned back the coverlets, plumped the pillows.  
  
‘No, nothing like that, but she said there is a great...energy in this little spark.’ She patted her belly and sank back in bed. ‘I feel it myself.’  
  
Cautiously, Fëanor got in beside her. He did not particularly want to share a bed with her. He often rose at night to sketch or write and such activity might disturb her. She reached out for his hand and drew it to rest on her stomach.  
  
He jolted, feeling it immediately, part of himself leaping up at the contact, joining with his soul. Clear and bright in his mind he saw a tall man, beautiful, with hair like polished copper and pale silver eyes. The man turned to smile at him and Fëanor smiled back with such love that it felt like fire in his breast. Names...He would be called Nelyafinwë — dull, but no doubt he would be expected to own that as one of the House of Finwë, then: Maidhros, yes, for the pale glitter of his eyes, and Maitimo, because he was beautiful of form, and Russandol, for his copper hair, and later...Maedhros. Fëanor smiled, and then a wash of flame came between them and he opened his eyes with a start.  
  
‘Thou canst feel him?’ Nerdanel sounded drowsy.  
  
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I feel him.’  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
Whatever Nerdanel might have intended, the pregnancy sapped at her strength from the first. Most often, she drowsed or slept, confining her activities to walks in the garden or sketching. Concerned, Fëanor spoke often to Saila who had, by unspoken decree, become the most senior of the women appointed to his wife.  
  
‘My Lord, the baby is taking a great deal of her strength,’ she said plainly. ‘It would be advisable for thee to lend her thine.’ She nodded when he said that he did, that he spent time with his hand on Nerdanel’s swelling stomach. ‘Good.’  
  
‘Is there anything more?’ he asked impatiently, then, at her obvious reluctance: ‘Is this where we have the conversation about my killing my own mother?’  
  
Surprisingly, Saila flushed. ‘My Lord, I attended upon Queen Míriel,’ she said in a strangled voice.  
  
‘I did not know that.’  
  
‘Nevertheless, I did. And no woman wanted their child more. She loved thee.’  
  
And yet, she did not say that it was not his fault.  
  
  
  
Rather to Fëanor’s surprise, Indis became a frequent visitor to their rooms, or invited Nerdanel to her own apartments. Nerdanel never discussed their conversations, but Fëanor was pleased by the queen’s acceptance for his wife’s sake and, at such times, devoted himself to his work. Builders had gone north to lay footings for the mansion he would call _Formenos_ , but Fëanor wanted to oversee the work himself, and could not until the baby was born and his wife recovered, so progress had slowed. Instead, the words ‘little spark’ had given him an idea: To capture light in crystals that could be used in lamps that would burn always. When Nerdanel laughed and asked what need had they of light when it was never dark in Valinor, he merely shrugged. Of course there was always light of some kind in Valinor but not, from the mysterious vanishing book he had read, in Endor — and he had not forgotten his desire to go there. In the mines, lamps were used, but the oil needed replenishing. The lamps he intended to create would not, so must be placed within shuttered vessels that could be opened when illumination was needed.

Fingolfin sometimes joined him, but such was the surreptitious nature of his company that it was clear he was disobeying his parents in doing so.   
A filial son would no doubt have reiterated the parents commands and sent Fingolfin away; Fëanor, without guilt, accepted that he was a most unfilial son (still furious at the entrapment that had forced him into marriage) and did not. He enjoyed Fingolfin’s company the longer he was in it. His half-brother was intelligent and quick to learn; neither did he shrink from expressing his own ideas and opinions. Fëanor hoped his son (all his sons) would be as bright and as promising.  
  
He had not spoken to Finwë since the wedding, and his father’s trips up to Taniquetil became more frequent. Apparently the Valar did not require Indis or Fingolfin except for the Great Festivals and with Indis concerned with her own suite and Nerdanel, this did at least leave times when Fingolfin could spend several hours with Fëanor.

There were enough servants to note where Fingolfin went and whom he was with but if any told his parents, he never said. Perhaps they did not, seeing no harm in it. Often they met in the workshops which at least had the advantage of Fingolfin learning, not ‘wasting time’ as some might have it. A sop that could be thrown at his parents feet. At other times, Fëanor came to Fingolfin’s study or they walked in the gardens.  
  
It was half-way through Nerdanel’s pregnancy when Rúmil approached Fëanor with a suggestion that he might like to embark on some ‘advanced study’ while his wife was resting. Fëanor frowned; he was always eager to learn, and indeed had frequently asked his tutors for more work rather than trying to dodge lessons. He wondered what more Rúmil had to teach him. In answer, Rúmil drew a roll of parchment from the wide sleeves of his scholar’s robe and set a finger to his lips.  
  
Intrigued, Fëanor unrolled the parchment and read. He stiffened, the words dancing in his mind.  
 _Sanwe-layta._ Thought-opening. A communication using thoughts rather than speech.  
  
Fëanor looked up, eyes narrowed on Rúmil’s face, then caught up a pen and wrote: _Yes, teach me._  
  
  
  
It seemed so easy and effortless, Fëanor felt as if he were remembering something he had always known. At first the thoughts were feelings and images, but he refined them as he might polish an uncut stone, until Rúmil could hear his words as clearly as if he spoke them aloud. Even then, they conveyed more than speech alone. On occasion, when frustrated or angry, Rúmil requested him to ‘lower his tone’, his energy could quite easily cause pain, he said.  
  
 _Why has this never been taught us in Valinor_? he demanded.  
  
 _Thou knowest quite well,_ Rúmil responded. _The Valar would have us forget our lives in Endor, and mind-speech was natural to us then. But I believe we can hide it better from them than spoken words. I would not wager on it, but there must be a reason for its prohibition, dost thou not think_?  
  
Fëanor wondered if it had been Rúmil who had written and placed the book in the library — and after removed it; he was so often there that no-one questioned his presence. But Rúmil denied it, and was so curious that Fëanor was inclined to believe him when he professed ignorance.  
  
Of course he wanted to share his new knowledge and, naturally, with Fingolfin. Ósanwe required some concentration, at least at the beginning, and Nerdanel needed all her strength, so there was only his half-brother. Even had his wife not been weary (and increasingly so) Fingolfin would always have been Fëanor’s first choice of confidante. Nerdanel knew Fëanor had little time for the Valar, but not the extent of his growing contempt. Fingolfin, he had already shared his dreams with: freedom in Endor.  
  
Fingolfin took to Ósanwe just as easily as Fëanor, and with utter delight. Beaming, his eyes huge, he wrote: _Now we can speak to one another even when we are not together!_  
  
Smiling, Fëanor nodded and said: _Yes._ And Fingolfin laughed and flung his arms around Fëanor’s waist.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
The first son of Fëanor and Nerdanel was born swiftly, and already possessed a silky halo of red curls as he was placed in Fëanor’s arms. Although most in Valinor called him Nelyafinwë, his parents called him Maitimo. Much to Fëanor’s relief, his wife gained her old strength back rapidly after the birth, although he insisted that she still rest. He ordered her rich milk possets brought up from the kitchen and spent many hours with her watching his son sleep.  
  
It was a new order of love that he felt, astonished that he could have played a part in creating this most perfect creature. When he was presented formally to the King and Queen, even Finwë’s stern expression softened, and Indis cooed and congratulated fondly, thought her words were mostly addressed to Nerdanel.  
  
Maitimo had nurses, and when Nerdanel felt perfectly recovered, she returned to her work. Fëanor however, liked to have the baby with him, and took him in his bassinet to the workshops, only bringing him back to the place to be fed or changed. Maitimo seemed to enjoy this, when he was not asleep, but he did sleep a great deal of the time. When he was awake he was observant, his eyes piercing, and loved to grasp a handful of Fëanor’s hair — or Fingolfin’s when he was there. Fingolfin grew very fond of Maitimo, and quickly.  
  
Fëanor had used Nerdanel’s pregnancy to avoid the Valar’s festivals, and when the command came down from Taniquetil to present his son that he might be blessed by the Valar, he decided it was time to make himself plain. It was not fair to pass impolite messages through his father; it would be better to _show_ the Valar.  
  
The strange, nauseous architecture that soared over his head and stretched around him in the blanched madness of the gardens did not trouble him. By the time he reached the Throne Hall he was humming with fury and resolve. In the palace, with so much to occupy him, he could thrust his anger aside a little. During the two day ride up the mountain, he had leisure to stoke it.  
  
Eönwë was in attendance, as was Ingwë, in his customary pose of submissive worship. Manwë and Varda sat staring over their heads white and perfect as children’s dolls set in one pose. Manwë raised a thin white hand.

And Maitimo began to wail. He was not a baby who fussed, but he had become restless and irritable as they ascended the mountain, and Nerdanel had whispered once or twice to Fëanor that she was tempted to turn back. Fëanor was more than tempted, but he meant this to be the first and last occasion one of his children would be subjected to it, and he was going to tell the Valar to their faces.  
  
In the Throne Hall, though Maitimo had been fed and was freshly washed and changed, still he screamed. Fëanor wondered if he had, too, when brought here. The acoustics of the hall, meant to amplify the Valar’s voices, only exacerbated the volume of the baby’s cries. People looked around, embarrassed, not knowing what to do or say, while Manwë and Varda simply looked down at them with sour disapproval on their set-wax faces.  
  
Fëanor simply turned on his heel and carried his son out, Nerdanel at his side. Maedhros calmed as soon as he was outside, began to howl again as soon as they approached the great doors. Fëanor and Nerdanel looked at one another, joined in purpose.  
‘If it upsets him to be in there,’ she said pugnaciously. ‘Then I am not taking him back in. Thou must apologise, Fëanor, but something is obviously wrong.’  
  
‘I certainly shall not apologise for something our son cannot help,’ he said as she took Maitimo and sat with Saila on a stone bench.  
  
‘My lords and ladies.‘ Fëanor spoke from the doorway. ‘My wife and I cannot allow my son to become upset. He has calmed now, but we will not bring him back in. For some reason, as soon as we come near the doors he begins to cry again. No doubt the presence of the Valar in their power is too... _rich_ for a baby.’ He raised a lazily interrogative brow at Manwë’s stony face, could not conceal the satisfaction he felt at having an excuse no-one could truly question. ‘And our son’s health and happiness comes before anything. I am sure thou wilt agree. I believe that he was to be...er...blessed. Well, I am certain such as the Valar can bless him wherever he is. We shall be leaving now.’ Sketching the most trivial of bows, he sent a smile to Fingolfin, the flick of a wink at Ingwë and strode back out.  
  
‘If we have any more children,’ Nerdanel murmured as they prepared to depart, ‘I am not bringing them back here. No doubt it is an honour, but—‘  
  
‘We will not,’ Fëanor agreed. ‘It is no place for a baby.’ No place, he thought for any Elf. He did not want any Valar near his child; he felt it would be like some kind of creeping rot to be touched by those pale, bony hands.  
  
The wind rose, whipping at them as they rode down the mountain. Fëanor offed his hooded cloak and wrapped it around Nerdanel and their son. The wind smelled of rotten ice and malice.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. ~ Fire and Music, Starlight and Secrets ~

  
  
  
  
  
  
**~ Fire and Music, Starlight and Secrets ~**  
  
  
  
  
  
~ ‘Wilt thou come to Formenos, when it is built?’ Fëanor asked. ‘I would like thee as head tutor for my son when he is old enough to learn. And of course thy family is welcome.’  
  
Rúmil sat back. ‘I would like that,’ he smiled. ‘Yes, Fëanor, I would like that very much. Tirion has enough of us scholars for the young ones, and Fingolfin has almost completed his studies. What does the King say of thy moving?’  
  
‘My father does not speak to me,’ Fëanor said shortly.  
  
_And yet, a prince has many duties to perform._  
  
Fëanor grimaced. _Trust me, Rúmil, my father likes his powers and all its perquisites too much to want to hand any to me._  
  
_Thou art severe on him._  
  
_Why yes, I am. He is a willing master to slave owners._  
  
_Fëanor,_ Rúmil shook his head. _Thou knowest it is more complicated than that._ He ran a hand over the pages of the book he had brought as camouflage for his visit. _I have never met anyone with a mind like thine — though Fingolfin is not far behind thee — but anger will ever skew thy reason if thou doth not learn to control it._  
  
_He colluded in drugging my wine so that I slept with Nerdanel and had to be married. Oh, I have no proof, but I know he did it. Should I accept it then, meekly? No, Rúmil, I am still furious._ He pushed back the chair and stood up.  
  
_And your wife is pregnant again, I hear_?  
  
Fëanor nodded curtly. He might have been embarrassed and humiliated at his inability to perform sexually with his wife without aid, had he not known from the outset this would be the case. She was easy to live with, a pleasant companion with a calmness he utterly lacked but, as he had told Finwë, he had no desire for her.  
  
What he imagined, dreamed of, _longed for_ was a man’s hard body against his; he wanted to ram them into the wall, tumble them on the bed or couch or grass, wrestle with them, have sex that was more like a battle, to spend hours in passion, the exploration of desire. He could almost bring himself to orgasm without need of the drug if he thought of himself with Ingwë — or rather someone who possessed that shining beauty but with the passion he himself possessed. As it was, he drank the drug in wine and did his duty, for that was all it was, and all he felt after was a vague sense of wrongness.  
  
But Nerdanel wanted more children. Fëanor, thinking often of his dream of sons, longed for them too, but did not want his wife to make herself ill bearing them, and had never discussed his vision with her. And yet, despite the fact that bearing Maitimo had wearied her, despite the fact that when pregnant she had no energy to pursue her craft, she _wanted_ more children.  
  
Nerdanel became pregnant with his second son the first time he lay with her after Maitimo’s birth. There were no accidental pregnancies in Valinor; all women conceived when and if they wished to. And so, when she indicted that she wished them to consummate their marriage, he took the drug, and spent a moment to imagine himself with Ingwë or some unknown, as-yet-nameless man who lit all the fires inside him, fires that he knew were there, but that drowsed, only flickering with interest on occasion and were sublimated into his craft. He closed his eyes, wishing, _wishing_...  
  
Brilliant eyes stared back into his; blue-silver, like Fingolfin’s eyes, but older, a man’s, not a boy’s, long-lidded, brilliant, fringed by thick, feathery lashes. They blazed at him, passionate, challenging, proud...  
  
He gasped, pressed back against the wall of the bathing room, the look in those eyes flooding his cock to hardness even more effectively than the drug. Under his closed lids, he chased the vision, seeking to draw it out of the vision into reality, and then the eyes blinked and when they opened again, they were different: silver, like the molten lead in the forge, but the same spaciousness, shape and beauty as the first, that same precise wing of black brow framing them — a chord played through Fëanor’s mind like the plucked note of a harp, but mighty enough to be the sound that heralded the beginning of the universe.  
  
It was with those visions in his mind that he lay with Nerdanel, and begot Macalaurë.  
  
  
  
Now, in his study, he shifted restlessly. _My father lead the Noldor into a cage, Rúmil._ And its bars were closing around him more decisively each day that he did _nothing._  
  
_He did not know it was a cage, Fëanor. No-one did, then. What he saw, when he came with Elwë and Olwë and Ingwë was safety and beauty. A place where his people might prosper in peace._  
  
_And how did the Valar greet their visitors, I wonder — with white mead? The dews of Laurelin and Telperion_? Fëanor shot a bitter smile at the scholar. Who’s hand clamped down on his, dark eyes holding a warning.  
  
_Be careful,_ he advised. _If not for thyself, for thy family._  
  
Fëanor tossed his head impatiently, simmering. Yet it was true; he did not have only himself to consider now, but a wife, a young son, and another child on the way. But he _hated_ being careful, hated being forced into this life. He had intended, by now, to be exploring ways to leave Valinor, speaking to the Teleri, offering them his skills in return for being sailed over the Sundering Sea. He would have waited for Fingolfin to grow, of course, but he could have set events in motion. Now...  
  
And yet...his sons. But Nerdanel too could come to Endor. He would not force her, but if she was willing, they could bear children in freedom.

 _Things have changed,_ Rúmil reached for a glass of wine.  
  
_Over a year ago._ Fëanor straightened. _Yes. That sound in the sky._  
when he began to wake up...  
  
Rúmil’s brows flicked. _From what I hear, the Valar still do not know the cause of that. No-one speaks of it, naturally._  
  
Fëanor thought of the vanishing book. A hidden ally, but _who_?  
  
_we never had a chance before that, Fëanor. None of us did; we were dulled. Even thyself. Thou canst not wholly blame thy father for that._  
  
Fëanor expelled a pent breath. _I suppose not. But for bowing to the Valarin Laws, when he admitted to me he loved two women, who also loved one another—!_  
  
_Ah, yes. Such relationships were normal once. My wife..._ He paused, then went on carefully. _She bore a daughter beside Cuiviénen. One of the first to bear children. And not by me. Her name was Culina._  
  
Fëanor looked at him. _Was_?  
  
_She was a beautiful woman; hair like rose-gold. Her sire loved her and so did I. We were a triad, the three of us, with other lovers at times. Culina was a scrimshaw artist. Even thou wouldst have admired her work._ He smiled faintly. _Laurorne kept some of her work. At whiles she will take it out and look at it — and weep. The dew dulled some of that grief, Fëanor, and no doubt the Valar would pronounce that good, but we would not choose to forget._  
  
_What happened to her_? Fëanor touched his shoulder. There was pain, here.  
  
_She vanished. Like many of them in the time before Oromë came into our midst. Into the North, where Melkor denned._  
  
Fëanor shrank from imagining the pain he would feel if he lost Maitimo or the son to come, or any of them that dwelt in his dreams. Or what if it was Fingolfin...?  
_...I am so sorry, Rúmil._  
  
Rúmil’s shrug was heavy with memory. His shoulders slumped. _They simply vanished, Fëanor. Sometimes we found signs: Weapons, scraps of clothing, no bodies though, ever. They were taken. And they never came back. And we did not know what to do. Some of those who searched for them disappeared themselves. Culina was one of them._ He dropped his head into his hands. _There was one w—she respected greatly and when he was lost, she searched for him._ He looked up, eyes haunted by shadows. In them Fëanor saw snow-peaked mountains falling into pine-clad hills, a shining sea, the green gloom of deep forests — and a danger on the edge of sight, like a shadow on the heart...  
_What was the Dark Power doing to them? What did he want them for? We never found out. Laurorne was mad with grief. It was her choice, as it was mine, to come to Valinor, Fëanor. Because we could not fight the darkness that took away our people. Dost thou understand_?  
  
Fëanor stared at him. Then he said aloud. ‘No, Rúmil. I do not understand not fighting.’  
  
_We were hunters, husbandmen, artists. We had no training in fighting against a foe, not one like that._  
  
_But the Valar do; they must._ Fëanor’s eyes narrowed. _They descended upon Utumno and unroofed it. What did they find_?  
  
_Monsters, Fëanor._ Rúmil turned his head. _Abominations that they killed. Were they Elves? Were they people we had known and loved? I do not know and the Valar will not say. And it is not something any of us wish to dwell on._

Fëanor breathed hard, his mind supplying him with images all-too easily. He rose from his seat, went to the long window.  
_Is this why it is never spoken of,_ he wondered. _Is the pain too deep_?  
  
_That is part of it, yes_.  
  
_And yet, it should not be forgotten_! He spun back. _They, those who vanished, should not be forgotten! And the Valar imprisoned Melkor? Nothing more_?  
  
_I think they cannot do more,_ Rúmil said after a moment. _He cannot be slain, at least not by them._ He raised a hand. _I do not know it, but it is what I guess. Perhaps Eru could slay him. And perhaps Eru does not want to. The oldest tales that have come down to me from a time before the Quendi woke, speak of Eru and Melkor as being linked in some way._  
  
Fëanor came back to the table, leaned on his hands. He stared down at the polished wood. _Father said that although Melkor was gone, there were other creatures, things that served him._  
  
_So we were told, and yes, Fëanor that was true. There were sightings of great wolves, nothing like these in Valinor; monstrous, eaters of living flesh. Huge as horses, and lead by something that was more than a beast, something with intelligence and cunning — and cruelty. Those Fell-wolves, as we called them, were fought and sometimes killed by our greatest warriors. Ingwë was not always as thou seest him now,_ he added dryly. _And there were others._

 _So we_ could _fight_?  
  
_We fought, then, as we hunted. Some were indeed mighty, with bow or spear or knife, but the Dark was stronger._ He rose. _And so there were reasons for thy father’s decision to lead his people here, and why Ingwë bought the Vanyar, and why Olwë followed. Laggardly, yes, for he had lost a brother. But he came._ He laid a hand on Fëanor’s shoulder as he left. _Do not forget it in thine anger. And...be careful._  
  
Be careful.  
  
How he loathed having to _be careful_.  
  
Olwë. A brother. And Finwë?  
  
_Rúmil._ He spun to face the closing door. _Did my father have a brother_?  
  
Fëanor felt him pause, and then the mental equivalent of another warning. Barriers went up. Fëanor was surprised; he would not have expected it of the scholar.  
  
_It is not fitting for me to tell thee of thy father’s former life,_ Rúmil reproved, and Fëanor knew a brief, violent desire to rip apart those barriers, to look and _see_. But it would hurt, might even cause harm, and he wrestled the thought into submission.

He swore to himself.  
  
Secrets. Always too many secrets.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
The second pregnancy tired Nerdanel as much as the first but this time she seemed resigned to her period of inactivity. She liked Fëanor to draw her back against him and hold her with a hand on the swelling of her belly. She claimed it gave her strength, and Fëanor did not refuse anything that gave her ease. He let his mind sink into the energy there, growing. He thought of fire and music, a stern, startling beauty, and the names came to him borne upon those images: Kanafinwë, for the strength of his voice, and Macalaurë, _Gold-cleaver_ for his harping. Maglor. Hair black as Fëanor’s, with silver eyes... _Fire and music. My Song._  
Although Fëanor had learned musical instruments, creating was his first love, but now he brought harps and lyres to the bedchamber, playing them softly as Nerdanel rested.  
  
Indis was once again a frequent visitor, although she looked disapprovingly at Fëanor as if to blame him alone for Nerdanel’s second, swift fall into pregnancy. It was not usual, he heard her say to Saila. There were years between Fingolfin and Finarfin, and the strongest spirit needed time to rest between births. Fëanor took Maitimo with him to the workshops, allowing the ladies to talk and giving Nerdanel a chance to rest.  
  
Maitimo was already talking and walking, and needed a close watch kept on him. Fëanor opened a nearby empty chamber as a nursery, although if his dream-vision were true he would require a great deal more space, which he would prefer to be at Formenos rather than in the palace. Fingolfin sometimes came and they would sit with Maitimo, teaching him his first letters, expanding his vocabulary, telling him tales, playing. Fingolfin liked to tell the child about Endor. Perhaps it was a subtle reminder to Fëanor that Fingolfin had not forgotten.  
  
Maitimo was not the only one who was growing. Fingolfin seemed to grow taller each day as he reached toward his own coming-of-age, shoulders broadening, cheekbones sweeping high and sharp, putting on lean muscle with his height. He spent as much time in the training field as he did in study now. His hair was growing to the length of all adult Elves, and now almost brushed his knees. No doubt Finwë and Indis were as aware of his maturing as Fëanor, and had some woman in their eye that he should marry. Certainly there were more feasts at the palace, although the sound came only dimly to Fëanor’s chambers. Lords and ladies would be parading their daughters in the hope one of them would find favour.  
  
The thought infuriated Fëanor; he wanted to warn Fingolfin of the stratagems that might be employed against him, but what good would it do if he did? _He_ had promised Fingolfin not to marry, and was forced into it regardless. (It would never stop rankling, for all the joy he found in his son and the one to come) And perhaps it would not be the same for Fingolfin; he might fall in love and marry willingly.  
  
One early evening, when Maitimo slept under the watchful eyes of the women, and Nerdanel rested, Fëanor went down to the training fields west of Tirion. His work in the smithies and forges was physical, but at times he liked to stretch his muscles in a run. The great oval track was busy; the Games were approaching, and while Fëanor had never bothered with them, having nothing to prove, many people enjoyed the sport and the three-day spectacle. Nobles and commoners alike could compete and for once there was no bar between them but skill.  
  
In the field, some threw javelins, others wrestled in the sand squares, shot arrows at targets, threw metal discs, jumped bars that were raised each time, jogged around the track, before pushing themselves into sprints. Their trainers were all, without exception, Unbegotten, who had developed these very skills (or sports, as they were now). Fëanor imagined the spears or arrows used in hunting, the runners using their speed to catch a galloping auroch, and could almost smell the musk of the hot beast, feel the powerful surge of its body as it ran. He was not blind to the dangers his father and Rúmil had spoken of, although he was aware that, born and bred into a land at peace, he could not properly comprehend or imagine danger. And yet, that freedom in Endor seemed so much more desirable than this bland comfort. Even the peril of it, surely, would taste like iron on the edge of a cold blade...  
  
He slipped off his boots and began to jog, then run, enjoying the movement of his muscles as he moved faster, faster around the long outside curve of the track, passing others without noticing them, one lap, two, three, four, faster, until the brazen sky was a blur and all that existed was the pulse of his blood, the beat of his heart, the grass under his racing feet.  
  
He stopped, quite abruptly, glowing, not tired, and took a deep breath. He felt he could run forever, but not on this carefully proscribed track, proscribed, as everything in Valinor. Eyes were on him as he walked to the water fountain and drank. He was used to it, High Prince of the Noldor. For all that meant to him.  
  
His eyes followed a group of boys coming in to the finishing line, and focussed on the leader — Fingolfin. He smiled as his half-brother drew ahead, face set in an ecstasy of concentration, long legs eating up the ground, pulling ahead, increasing the distance more with each stride. Fëanor glanced at the competitors, wondering if they were allowing him, their prince, to win, but their striving showed plainly as they battled to catch up. The runners behind that last flip of Fingolfin’s long braid, did not come near to catching him.  
  
Fingolfin jogged to a stop. He showed no triumph, no gloating, only the satisfaction of having done his best. He turned and smiled at the others, catching their hands, charming, princely, far more than Fëanor, who could not be bothered with such social interaction. Then he turned and saw Fëanor. Something leaped into his eyes, but then his lashes dropped and the smile that had flashed out was contained. He walked easily to the fountain, into the spreading silence.  
  
_Well run,_ Fëanor smiled as Fingolfin drank and Fingolfin’s cheeks dimpled. The other boys pressed forward and Fëanor moved back realising that here, in public, Fingolfin was watched and there were enough here to see that tales were carried to his parents. Fingolfin’s behaviour showed his own wariness plainly enough. He had not uttered one word. Anyone watching them now would believe there to be no love lost between them. A burst of anger caught Fëanor hard in the breast and he swung away, strode out of the field.

 _Fëanor_! Fingolfin’s voice caught him.  
  
_Clearly we cannot talk here!_  
  
_I am sorry; there are too many people, and many willing to gain favour by tattling._  
  
Fëanor walked on, heard a youthful voice say, and loud enough to be heard, and deliberately so; someone who wanted to be noticed: ‘He is just as proud and arrogant as people say, Prince Fingolfin. He did not even acknowledge thee. Well, _I_ think... And then someone must have hushed him, for his voice dropped to an unintelligible mutter.  
  
_What in the hells do they think I am going to do to thee_? But he walled that thought up. It was hardly Fingolfin’s fault that his parents were unreasonable.  
  
  
  
‘My Lord,’ the chamberer exclaimed as he entered the palace. ‘The King would see thee in private.’  
  
‘What now?’ Fëanor demanded, but turned and made his way to Finwë’s chamber. He meant to have it out with his father there and then, but when he entered was surprised to see Olwë sitting with the King. He bit the inside of his mouth hard, tasting blood and inclined his head. There had been the occasional visits to Alqualondë when he was young, but Fëanor generally saw the Telerin King in the Halls of Ilmarin.  
  
‘Ah, here he is,’ Finwë said. ‘Fëanor, Olwë has a — ah— commission he would like thee to execute.’ There was a faint disapproval in his expression; he did not like his eldest son thought of as a mere craftsman.  
  
‘We have heard much of thee, in Alqualondë, Prince Fëanor,’ Olwë smiled. ‘I have a vision for enriching the beauty of the Swanhaven, but my own artisans say only thou might be able to do the things I envisage. And so I have come to ask thee if it might be possible.’  
  
‘What is it thou art thinking of?’ Fëanor poured himself a glass of wine, cast a glare at his father.  
  
‘I would like my tower and some of the palace buildings faced with nacre,’ Olwë told him. ‘But my people say it will not last.’  
  
‘Nacre crumbles,’ Fëanor agreed. ‘Thou wouldst be walking in mother-of-pearl dust. Pretty, but annoying. But there is a way.’ He narrowed his eyes to bring his inner vision into focus. ‘I am not thinking of nacre, Olwë, but of pearl. Melted pearl.’ He warmed to the theme. ‘Melted into one, extruded in blocks for building, thinner strips for facing, or shaped when still malleable. Yes, it could be done, but only in Aulë’s cold forges. I mean to build my own in Formenos, but at the moment, there is only one place in Valinor with cold forges, and that is Aulë’s workshops.’  
  
A gleam came into Olwë’s eyes. ‘Thou couldst do this in truth?’  
  
Fëanor shrugged. ‘Of course. I simply need the pearls — of which the Bay of Eldamar has many — and the forge. I have experimented with certain gems and semi-precious stones, and some minor adjustments should be sufficient to work with pearl. I have not,’ he added, ‘attempted anything on this scale so far, but I can do it, believe me.’  
  
‘Thou wouldst earn my gratitude,’ Olwë said. ‘But what would a Prince of the Noldor ask of the King of the Teleri?’  
  
‘At the moment, there is only one thing I want,’ Fëanor said. ‘Teach me to sail.’  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
Aulë was very willing — even enthusiastic — that Fëanor use his forges, but it necessitated being away from Tirion for a time. He told Nerdanel he would take Maitimo and she agreed as long as Saila and another servant went with them.  
‘Because I know thee and once thou art engrossed in the work thou wilt forget he is even there. And yes, I will be perfectly alright,’ she assured him, as he gently massaged her back. ‘I wish I could go with thee. I have never seen Aulë’s forges, but I do need to rest.’  
  
‘We will build our own forges in Formenos,’ he said.  
  
‘How long will this work take?’ she asked.  
  
‘I am only waiting on the pearls.’ He settled her against him and laid his hand on her stomach, swelling round as a melon. ‘Olwë is having them transported to Aulë’s mansions. Hmmm...I might add some opal, perhaps, for that lustre he wanted with nacre. But once the process is begun, no more than three or four weeks, I think, allowing for some experimentation. Aulë has a great many cold forges.’ He felt the tremor of little kicks under his fingers and both of them laughed; it was as if young Macalaurë protested his going.  
  
On a whim, he asked that Fingolfin might accompany him and asked Finwë privately as he felt sure that the answer would be no and did not want to disappoint his brother again. Predictably, his father did refuse, but said that he might bring Fingolfin to Aulë’s as Fingolfin had expressed an interest in deepening his own craft. Now that Fëanor was becoming renowned Finwë seemed more interested in his work. Requests for something special, unique, something that most craftsmen could not produce, were arriving all the time, and all the mines now used his Fëanorion lamps. In the main, he was asked to create jewellery: Fingolfin’s circlet and Ingwë’s ring were famous for their beauty, but there was nothing Fëanor would not turn his hand to.  
  
The work was indeed engrossing; cold forges and the rarer spell forges, that needed words of Power to activate, required an enormous amount of mental strength and concentration. Fëanor simply saw any challenge as something to be met and overcome and was in his creative element. The words traced their letters into his mind, burning there, taking on the weight of his vision, his intention. It seemed so easy, so natural, he wondered why he had not thought of it before. No art was simply a matter of using the hands, but also the mind. Did he not always _see_ what he wished to create before setting his hand to the task? This was simply a way of combining vision, skill and power.  
  
There was something deeply satisfying in watching the huge trays of pearls slide into the cold forges and emerge melted into one, breathing icy cold and solid as granite. There were blocks, sheets, and Fëanor chanted the still-soft material into shapes as he worked it, adding to the gleam, feathering the fire of his mind into the stone. _Yes, this is how it should be..._  
  
He made a pendant for Nerdanel, a brooch for Fingolfin, a bracelet for Indis (a gift of thanks for her kindness to his wife) rings for Nerdanel’s women and, because he was angry with his father but not petty, a circlet for Finwë. Adding opals, black and pale and fiery, increased the iridescence of the made gems so that they sang in the light and possessed a glow even in their locked caskets.  
  
So engrossed was he, he did not hear his father enter the cavernous workshop until Aulë’s voice boomed a welcome. He straightened and turned, seeing Finwë with Fingolfin at his side. Finwë’s attention was fixed on Aulë and Fingolfin blazed him a quick smile, leaving his father’s side to approach the workbench.  
  
They had not communicated even in mind-speech, and only seen one another at a distance since Fëanor stormed from the training fields. Fingolfin looked down at the bench, the tools, down-dropped long lashes thick as fern fronds. He said, on a sigh: ‘I wish thou couldst tutor me in thine art. I did ask, but father is going to ask Aulë if I can train under his tutelage.’  
  
‘I see. I am not good enough, then?’ At the flash of anger Fingolfin looked up, but at that moment they were joined by Finwë and Aulë, who was explaining the work. Fëanor was tempted to throw the circlet he had made back in the vats to be melted and remade but after a fierce internal struggle, a long look at Fingolfin’s anxious face, he presented it and Fingolfin’s brooch. Finwë’s brows snapped together, and he said, ‘This is truly extraordinary work, Fëanor.’  
  
‘Thy son is exceptional,’ Aulë pronounced gravely, either unaware of the schism between father and son or, Valar-like, uncaring of it. ‘There are few I would teach the Words of Power to, and fewer still who could encompass them and bend them to their will.’ He cast an approving glance at Fëanor. ‘And yet, he seems born to such skills. What he might yet conceive and create, even I cannot guess.’  
  
Fëanor said to Fingolfin: ‘As thou wert kind enough to design and create my insignia, I thought I should return the gift.’  
  
If his own device was the Fireflower, he had mentally named Fingolfin’s _Starfire_ , but added red flames in reformed fire opal over the centre inlay to indicate their shared blood, then eight more unfurled over frozen sapphire toward the rim.  
  
‘Oh, how _beautiful_!’ Fingolfin’s face shone as he showed his father. ‘Yes, _this_ shall be my banner, Fëanor.’ Adult-like he clasped Fëanor’s hand tightly. ‘I thank thee for this, brother.’ But his mind and eyes gave the lie to the formal words.  
  
‘Let me put it on thee,’ Finwë interrupted, taking the brooch and fixing it at Fingolfin’s shoulder, his eyes lifting to Fëanor, who met them unblinkingly.  
  
‘I have a gift for Indis and Nerdanel, if thou wouldst like to carry them back to Tirion,’ Fëanor said tightly.  
  
Aulë lead them to the warehouse where the finished material was being loaded for transport to Alqualondë. Fëanor would head the work on Olwë’s palace himself, but with Nerdanel soon to give birth, had explained that it must wait. After, he would take all his family to the Swanhaven. Olwë had declared himself honoured to lodge them as house guests, and Fëanor was more than happy to leave Tirion for a time.  
  
Fingolfin eased back to walk alongside Fëanor, reaching out to touch his arm, but Finwë waited, telling his youngest son to attend to Aulë, and took his place.  
‘Nerdanel is well and tells thee to remember to rest and eat,’ he said quietly, then: ‘Perhaps I was wrong to try and dissuade thee from following this craft. Lord Aulë seems most impressed with thee.’  
  
Fëanor, not feeling in any mood to be conciliatory, fell back still further, until Aulë and Fingolfin were a good distance ahead, his brother leaning to look over a long slim pillar of melted pearls, and said directly into his father’s mind: _Why wilt thou not allow Fingolfin to work with me? I can teach him as well as Aulë— everything thou hast seen devolved from my mind, not his. Aulë only taught me to use my mind to invoke the spells._  
  
Finwë took a step back, hand at his head, lips parted. ‘Who,’ he whispered, ‘taught thee to use ‘sanwë?’  
  
Fëanor cut a hand through the air. _Never mind. It is natural to us, and one of the things the Valar have forbidden. I wonder why?_  
  
‘Thou must stop this now. Wilt thou _not learn_?’  
  
Aulë and Fingolfin looked around, his last word reaching them, and he set his teeth, turned away, and walked toward them. Fëanor looked after him, fury undischarged, but his brother’s face, worried and strained gentled him.  
_Never tell him we speak in this way,_ he said, and Fingolfin gave a bare nod.  
_I never will._  
  
Secrets.  
  
  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
Fëanor’s second son was born during the Mingling of the Lights, and had a set of lungs on him that made the women wince. He calmed in his father’s arms, to his voice and to any kind of music so, when Fëanor was busy, there was always a bard in attendance to play to him. Macalaurë’s hair was as seen in Fëanor’s vision, shining black, and shocking silver eyes dominated his little face. This time, Nerdanel remained weary for longer after the birth, and was eager to go to Alqualondë to regain her strength. She had only been there once as a child, and spoke of walking on the glittering shores, feeling the sea-wind in her hair, even learning to swim.  
  
On the day of their departure, Fingolfin reached out to speak to Fëanor with that spice of mischief that Fëanor had not heard in too-long a time. His brother had gone to Aulë’s mansions almost as soon as Fëanor left them and was enjoyed the craft he was taught.  
_I said to Aulë I would like some more practical experience,_ he said. _And he agrees there is nothing as good as that for teaching one. He wants to see thy work in the Swanhaven, and we are coming there in two weeks. Father can say nothing, since Aulë suggested it._ His mind was all wicked laughter.  
  
Fëanor smiled. _Well played, brother. I look forward to seeing thee._  
  
  
  
The great living arches of stone where the Swan ships moored were watched over by Olwë’s tower and the city of the Teleri. It was a beautiful situation: great strands of white sand sweeping north and south, sparkling with nacre and grains of crystal. The light of the Trees pierced down through the Calcirya, but beyond it, the illumination was gentler than almost anywhere in Valinor and Fëanor could see how the material he had created would shimmer on the tower, making it a lovely, glowing beacon.  
  
The Teleri were unusual in the fact that, unlike the Noldor and Vanya, they had first dwelt on the isle of Tol Eressëa and only fully removed to Eldamar in the years before Fëanor’s birth. He guessed from that, that there was more regret in them than most, although one could tell little from their serene faces. It was well known that Olwë had a brother who had vanished on the Great Journey, and perhaps that was one of the reasons he lingered, neither part of Valinor or Endor, for a long time. But now, acceptance had come, and he meant to beautify his city.  
  
The King received them with courteous hospitality. His wife was with child at the time, and made Nerdanel especially welcome, showing her the nursery she was planning, doting on Maitimo and Macalaurë, but still Maitimo liked to be with Fëanor, which was a hair-raising thought, as much of the later work involved tall ladders and scaffolding. Maitimo was inclined to sulk until this was explained to him, whereupon he took seriously the suggestion he should help his mother with the baby, but later, when he was older, he could join his father on those (to him) dizzying heights.  
  
Fëanor liked Alqualondë. Tirion was bounded by high walls; the only real view was from the palace bedchambers. Here, there was a sense of endless space. He would stand high on the scaffolding and look out over the the ocean that shone purest turquoise and darkened to sapphire and his mind took him yet further East — East to the shores his people had left, to Endor, the great landmass of the world that lay beyond his sight, but not beyond the reach of his imagination.  
  
He loved the ocean wind with its wild, briny scent, the softer light, the times he spent walking along the sands, the warm sea lapping at his ankles. Perhaps, he thought, the ocean plucked at an ancient blood-memory of the Inland Sea of Helcar.

As the light waned toward Telperipn’s bloom, he took Nerdanel, her women and the children to the northern beach, letting Maitimo paddle, holding Macalaurë as he and Nerdanel strolled and the women came behind talking softly. Maitimo was fascinated by the rock-pools, the tiny, colourful creatures in them; he played and paddled, the sea-breeze ruffling his copper hair. They took wine and food with them, and sat long into the silver of Telperion until Maitimo’s head nodded, and Fëanor carried him back to his bed. Later he and Nerdanel joined Olwë and his household for supper.  
  
Fëanor had never slept easily even as a child. Even under what he thought of as the _numbing_ influence of the Tree dew, his mind was too active, but in Alqualondë the sea air seemed to send him into deep, relaxing slumber as soon as he lay down. He would wake with Nerdanel curled against him, and rise eager for the work ahead. Leaving his wife to sleep, he went to see his sons and would take them into Olwë’s gardens, where rich flowers bloomed behind the walls. Only then would he begin work, fitting the facing to the pale stone, the carved arches over the windows.  
  
He did not lack for masons and workers; some were Noldor who had come forward to request he consider them for this task, many were Teleri. All of them were fascinated by the material he had created and wished to learn more. It decided him to bring his building of Formenos forward, to construct cold forges and spell forges there, and take on apprentices. He did not see why such knowledge should be confined to the Valar or even to a few. If it were impossible for any but a god to invoke words of Power, then he himself would not have been able to encompass them.  
  
He spoke of this to the workers when they paused to eat, the palace providing them with ale, light wine, cooked fish, cheese, bread and fruit, and they gathered around him. Fëanor loved to explain, loved to _teach_ , especially those who absorbed what he said and asked intelligent questions. The work went quickly, easily, the Teleri singing as ran up and down the scaffolding, calling to one another, jesting, laughing. The great cranes lifted the blocks and sheets into place, and the tower began to shine.  
  
He had just finished the last of his chilled ale, was looking up at the tower, when a voice, filled with demure laughter, said behind him: ‘I hope thou hast room for another apprentice, my Lord Prince.’  
  
Fëanor turned quickly, looked down (and not too far down now) into Fingolfin’s glittering eyes. His half-brother was dressed very like himself, in a plain tunic, breeches and soft leather shoes, his mass of hair coiled up behind his head. But he could never look less than a prince, and his eyes were purer than crystal.  
  
‘It only needed this,’ Fëanor said.  
  
‘Only needed what?’  
  
‘Thy presence — to make this perfect.’ He took Fingolfin’s arm. ‘Come on, then. I will race thee to the top!’  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  



	7. ~ Stormlight ~

  
  
  
  
****~ Stormlight****  
  
  
  
  
~ Aulë had never had much contact with the Teleri, who revered Ulmo, Ossë and Uinen, thus his presence caused a flutter through the palace. Olwë’s attention was bent toward entertaining him, which allowed Fëanor and Fingolfin to spend some time together. They were watched, Fëanor knew, and if he let himself think about it, the baffled rage welled up, but he was busy and pushed it to one side. When he returned to Tirion, he vowed, he would confront his father.  
  
Fingolfin was lodged close by he and Nerdanel, and would join Fëanor early in the morning with the children. Nerdanel, who felt an affection for him, was also pleased to see him, as was Maitimo who ran toward him and was lifted into a hug. Macalaurë was happy in his arms.  
  
During the day, with Aulë close by, they could speak little save of the work, unsure whether the Valar could overhear mind-speech. Fëanor might have been tempted to question Aulë save that he trusted none of the Valar, and an echo of the stultifying effects of the dew reawakened when too long in his presence. That was....interesting; it went some why to explaining why, even with the dew altered, those close to the Valar still looked only half-alive. It was as if the Power’s very presence was numbing.  
  
When the workers stopped to eat, Fëanor and Fingolfin sat together, but the evenings provided them with more privacy. Fingolfin joined Fëanor on their walks along the beach, shared the carrying of Macalaurë, while Maitimo trotted beside them, sometimes swept up in their arms and Nerdanel and her women followed at a more leisurely pace, enjoying the breeze and the sea air.  
  
‘It is so beautiful here,’ Fingolfin said, looking across the ocean. The hard, wet sand looked like wet silk in the softer light. The weather was calm, but far on the horizon clouds were piling: a storm out at sea. A vein of lightning flickered across the distant grey.  
  
‘Like a taste of freedom,’ Fëanor agreed. Macalaurë wriggled in his arms, and Fëanor lowered his little bare legs toward the gentle waves. The child gurgled with laughter as the warm water lapped his toes. Maitimo jumped the tiny wavelets, counting. Behind them, the women murmured softly.  
  
‘The workers were speaking of thy house, the one thou art meaning to build,’ Fingolfin continued.  
  
‘Yes, Formenos. I intend to go there as soon as I have finished here.’ A sense of restlessness came over Fëanor. He looked down the beach and wanted suddenly to run and run and keep running as if, should he run far enough and fast enough, the simple act and desire would be enough to traverse the sea and take him to Endor. ‘Yes, to be away from Tirion has made me realise afresh how constricted I feel there.’  
  
‘I love the thought of that, a house in the hills,’ Fingolfin murmured. ‘Far away from the palace and the court. But—‘  
  
‘Endor.’ Fëanor lifted Macalaurë to his shoulder, patted his back. ‘I know. I have not forgotten.’  
  
‘I thought perhaps thy being so busy and with a family —‘  
  
‘Never. Dost thou not see? I have to do _something_ to fill the time.’ He spoke softly, but fierce with bridled emotion. ‘I have to, or lose my mind! I have asked Olwë that his mariners teach me to sail in repayment for the work I doing here.’ _Why thinks’t thou I want to sail unless to be able to sail a ship myself and leave this damned place._?  
  
Fingolfin had freed his hair, and the a breeze, running in from the east, swept it back suddenly in a great dark cloud. He closed his eyes, said simply. ‘There is no-one else to talk to about it. I dream of what thou didst tell me. I want,’ he opened his eyes again, and they were fierce and brilliant. ‘To see Endor. To dwell there. And with thee, my brother.’  
  
Fëanor stared at him, then looked across the ocean, his mind seized by a sudden idea. ‘I wonder...I wonder if we could. See Endor. And not in dream, or imagination from words written down.’ Was there a way of seeing something beyond sight, something held in the mind and soul, some made artefact that might show one images of things far away...? He said, ‘Thou hast given me an idea.’  
  
‘For what?’  
  
‘A far-seeing device,’ Fëanor said slowly. ‘We would want to see the lands we return to, would we not? Places we might settle and build?’ He smiled at Fingolfin’s arrested expression. ‘Yes?’  
  
‘Yes, but how? Fëanor I want to work on this with thee.’ _And they will never let me come to thee, but in a very short time I will be of age._  
  
Yes, he would. Engrossed in his work and his family, Fëanor had not been conscious of the passing of time, at least how it affected Fingolfin. During these last days — indeed since the training fields, when he had seen how grown, how princely, Fingolfin had become — he was very much aware.  
  
Fingolfin took Maitimo’s hand in his as they walked, but his eyes were fixed on Fëanor, who looked back at him, considering. The difference between the boy who had launched himself into Fëanor’s arms from a bookshelf and this one, almost a young man, was striking. In the last years before manhood, Elves changed dramatically. It would be some time before he (and Fëanor himself) reached full stature and maturity, but the greatest growth and changed happened a short time before their fiftieth year. All childishness had been planed away from that perfect face now; its bones were emphatic, smoothly moulding the suave skin.  
  
Until their awkward meeting in the training fields, Fëanor had become accustomed to thinking of Fingolfin as only a little older than Maitimo, an idea reinforced by Fingolfin’s visits to the nursery, but the truth was, that ever since Fingolfin flung himself at Fëanor, knowing he would be caught, the boy had been transforming into a young man. He was almost the same age now as Fëanor had been when Maitimo was conceived, and Fëanor himself was not a great deal older than his sons.  
  
Age was not something the Eldar gave much thought to, or not once they reached maturity, but there was less of a difference, in fact, between Fëanor and Fingolfin than Fëanor and Nerdanel. _She_ had not been pushed into marriage, but Fëanor wondered now if Mahtan had fixed his eyes on a matrimonial prize for his daughter from the moment Fëanor entered his workshop. Anyhow, the so-called commonality of Valinor had somewhat more leeway than the nobles, though Ingwë’s daughter Anairë had been born in Endor, but was still unmarried. With her devotion to the purity of Varda, Fëanor doubted she ever would be.  
  
_And have father and Indis spoken to thee of marriage_? Because that would be on their agenda now: to wrap Fingolfin into the arms of some woman as the Laws decreed, and after would come Finarfin, who Fëanor barely knew and was still a child, but another son to be disposed of. The faint flush that dusted Fingolfin’s cheeks was answer enough. His full mouth thinned.  
_Yes, but I have no desire to wed. I have told them so, and all they will say is that I am not above the Laws and must marry like everyone else. As thou didst._  
  
_Father told me the same thing._ Anger prickled through him.  
  
_Then why_? Fingolfin demanded. _Why didst thou? How could they force_ thee? _And how will they force me_?  
  
Fëanor smiled with teeth behind it.  
_Quite easily, as it happens. This must go no further, but I was tricked into it. Father, Mahtan and — I believe — Manwë colluded. There is a drug that can make one eager._ He supposed Fingolfin, like himself, had felt the stirrings of sexual hungers in the last years and raised his brows. The blush deepened.  
_I remember nothing, but under the influence of that drug I lay with Nerdanel in her father’s house. According to the laws, bedding means marriage, and so I had to marry her. No blame to her; she, too, was given the drug._  
  
_But that is monstrous,_ Fingolfin exploded. _Unforgivable. Little wonder thou didst not forgive father._  
  
_He told me that the responsibility for ensuring his people comply with the Laws falls on his shoulders, which is true. I am wroth with him, yes, angry at him for ever bringing us here into this cage, but more-so with the Valar._ He pressed the warning into those diamond-blue eyes. _And so, Fingolfin, be very cautious on thy coming of age if someone offers thee a drink. The taste of the drug is a little bitter, but if thou wert celebrating, or drinking a rich wine, perhaps thou wouldst not notice. I did not, until the following day when I could still taste it in my mouth. If thou art going to marry, do it with thine eyes open, and let it be to someone thou canst both like and desire. I have reason, now, to be grateful for that drug._  
  
Fingolfin was, by now, blushing like a camellia, but his eyes remained fast on Fëanor’s face. His hand came up, touched Fëanor’s breast, directly over the heart.  
_I was wroth with thee too, then. I wanted to_ hate _thee. I thought thou hadst deliberately lied to me._  
  
_By choice I would be readying to leave this Valar-blighted place, and with thee and anyone willing to come with me,_ Fëanor shot. _But I did have a dream of sons._ He looked down at Maitimo’s bright head, and his son looked up, pale silver eyes enormous and bright, filled with uncomplicated love. And Macalaurë’s little head nestled into his neck with that new-baked, wholesome scent of baby-skin and hair, and not for one moment could Fëanor regret either of his sons.  
_Three of them had red hair, and in Valinor only Mahtan and Nerdanel posses that colour. So, if I had to be married, then it had to be Nerdanel. But in fact there was no other honourable choice, Fingolfin. Although neither of us remember, she conceived Maitimo that first time._ He had never heard of any woman becoming pregnant outside marriage, but knew that _by the Laws_ it brought shame on them.  
  
_No,_ Fingolfin agreed after a moment. _Thou couldst have done nothing less. But —_  
  
_But, what_?  
  
Those remarkable eyes traced his face. _I have watched thee together. Thou art fond of her; I thought thou hadst become resigned to thy lot: Valinor, I mean._  
  
Fëanor glanced toward his wife and her women.  
_I am fond of her, yes. We are friends, and she is easy to live with. Perhaps that is the best one can hope for in such a marriage. At least there is mutual respect. It could be a great deal worse. But no, I am not resigned._  
  
_Thou art not in love with her_?  
  
With a wry crease to his mouth, Fëanor replied, _The kind of love, the kind of...relationship I dream of is not possible in Valinor, Fingolfin._  
  
Black lashes lowered. When they lifted, there was an expression in Fingolfin’s eyes that reminded Fëanor of how he had looked after that race in the training fields, but concentrated, deeper, far more triumphant.  
_To love another man_? His mind-voice was casual, as if the words held nothing to shock.  
  
Fëanor stared at him as the sea breathed behind them, pale in the luminous air and the breeze played with their hair. Fingolfin tilted his chin and refused to look away and Fëanor said at last: _Thou knowest such things are against the Laws._  
  
Fingolfin replied steadily. _One can hardly avoid not knowing. I spoke if it to my mother._ His eyes moved away briefly. _Not long ago. The bracelet thou didst make for her..._?  
  
Fëanor had not received any thanks for the gift, but had not expected it. He nodded.  
  
_I went into her chambers and found her looking at it. She had been crying. I asked her what was wrong. She said that the son of Míriel was as skilled as his mother, merely in a different craft._  
  
Maitimo ran ahead, stooping to pick up a gleaming shell and examine it. Fingolfin watched him, then his eyes returned to Fëanor.  
_I asked her why she had been weeping, and she told me...she told me she had loved Míriel._ He stopped. _Thou knowest this?_  
  
_I did, but it was not for me to tell thee._  
  
_She loved Míriel, was her lover, and so..._ His shoulders lifted. _It is possible, even natural to desire a man as a man would desire a woman._  
  
_Not natural to the Valar,_ Fëanor said acidly.  
  
_But we are not Valar, Fëanor,_ Fingolfin responded, hard and flat as beaten steel. _We are the Eldar._  
  
  
  
  


 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

‘And so,’ Fëanor said quietly, his hands covering Fingolfin’s. ‘Press the image, thine intention, into the material. Thou wilt probably feel a sensation of heat. Push it in, and bond it to the existing stone — Yes.’

Fingolfin’s slim fingers splayed against the light-shot pearl; his body held in an intensity of concentration, hot and vital against Fëanor’s, who experienced a moment of pure shock at the feel of it so close to his own. Indeed Fingolfin was no longer a boy.

And then, sweetly, easily as drawing and releasing a breath, came the transference, the power passing from his brother’s hands into the stone. Fëanor moved back, and Fingolfin turned. His eyes were luminous, distant, and Fëanor itched to improve on the circlet he had made, to truly capture the incandescent of those eyes. He must create something for Fingolfin’s coming-of-age. Smiling, proud that Fingolfin had taken to this art as easily as he, the smile faded when he saw that his half-brother’s gaze was otherwhere. He was seeing a vision, it had happened to Fëanor often enough for him to recognise it in others.  
‘What is it?’ he asked gently, after a moment. ‘What seest thou?’

‘A fortress,’ Fingolfin murmured, as the sea-winds gusted about their high place. ‘Tall mountains, a wild, cool land. A white tower like a spear of ice, and my banner flying over it.’ He turned his head. ‘My fortress, Fëanor, in Endor.’

They looked at one another. ‘I have not yet seen Endor in vision,’ Fëanor said. ‘I was wondering how to proceed with my farseeing device. I need something, I think to fix upon, and work from there, as a mariner throws an anchor down from sea to sea-floor. Yes. But thou wouldst have to work with me on this, Fingolfin.’

‘I have said I want to,’ Fingolfin said, quietly fervent. ‘And I will.’ His eyes retuned to the iridescent facing, and he laughed with delight. ‘I did it, Fëanor. And Aulë said I was not ready to learn words of Power as yet.’

‘Much he knows.’ Fëanor gripped the young, wide shoulder. ‘Hadst thou not been able to essay this, the facing would not have bonded with the tower stone. And it has. I felt it. Well done.’ His approval was unstinting and Fingolfin flushed with delight.

‘I think another week at most, and it will be complete,’ Fëanor said almost regretfully. ‘Come, let us finish early. The workers will be glad enough to return to their families before the bell. Olwë’s ship-master is going to take me out into the bay. Coming?’ He set his feet and hands both sides of the ladder and skimmed down.

 

 

Aulë would be leaving in two days, taking Fingolfin with him and still, this time in Alqualondë was the longest the half-brothers’ had been more or less alone together. Aulë had no interest in accompanying them on the sea, and remained in the palace. Olwë, who had watched his vision for a glowing-pearl tower become reality, offered Fëanor his own ship, which sailed southward from the Swanhaven, and toward Tol Eressëa.

Fëanor could imagine, as he stood on the deck, sails snapping in the wind, that he was leaving Valinor in truth, that the ship’s prow would turn to the East and so on — and on — running high on the crest of the water, until the scent of a new land, rich and cool and fertile would come to the mariners, and the shadowed smudge on the horizon would grow darker, more distinct until, to their ears, would come the sound of waves breaking on the shores of Middle-earth...  
He wondered what the mariners would say if he asked them to do just that, but he would never leave his sons. No, in his mind, Nerdanel and Maitimo and Macalaurë would be comfortably ensconced in the king’s cabin belowdecks. He would be captaining the ship — he could see what the crew were doing and why — and would just be spending a moment speaking to Fingolfin...

As if responding to his thought, Fingolfin came to his shoulder. Two thick braids held back the wind-tossed river of his hair as he lifted his face into the breeze. Tol Eressëa loomed before them, abandoned now (or so it was said) since the Teleri finally removed their people to Valinor. Their main port city, Avallónë, was on the Eastern shore of the island, but there was a smaller port here in the West. In the distance, Fëanor could see the white quays, the buildings climbing from the harbour into the hills, their stone all fronded with green. It seemed quite deserted.

‘I was just thinking,’ Fingolfin murmured.

‘So was I.’

Beyond Fingolfin’s beautiful profile, the sea suddenly darkened as if a shadow raced across it. The captain called something, and came forward into the sudden press of wind.  
‘My Lords, a storm.’

They looked up, saw the dark-edged cloud pouring across the sky; under it the waves chopped, furred with white. Fëanor wondered if this was the storm they had seen from the beach, finally making its way from the Outer Lands, to fall upon Valinor.  
‘Is that usual?’ he asked.

‘No, my Lord, Ulmo keeps the seas calm, but sometimes, Ossë sports. Lord Ulmo will soon have him back on his leash.’ With a grin.

It was said that long ago, wild Ossë had been lured away to Melkor’s service until called back by Ulmo, and some of that rebellion still showed. He was, the Teleri said, capricious, but not malicious.

It seemed that this day, Ulmo was unsuccessful in leashing (and what an _illuminating_ word! Fëanor thought) his underling. The wind rose, screaming in the rigging, and the mariners furled their sails, which snapped like banners. The sea stormed against the hull, white and furious. Fëanor felt no fear, only a kind of wild exhilaration. Fingolfin smiled at him through the dim storm-light, his eyes blazing and Fëanor threw back his head, felt the wind seize his hair, and laughed.

‘My Lords, we must try to make anchor at Tol Eressëa until this blows over,’ the Captain shouted. Fëanor raised a hand in acknowledgement, felt the ship shudder as the oars were manned, and it strove through the heaving sea. Rain began to fall, a hard patter of drops that turned into a deluge. In Valinor, when rains came, they were gentle; this rain hit like sharp, stinging pebbles. A mist rose on the waves’ surface, making visibility poor, but the Teleri were mariners of renown and brought the vessel into the circular shelter of the harbour. The great curving breakwaters seemed to hug the ship, draw it in to kinder waters. The mooring chain rattled down as the ship nudged against the dock, and the sailors leapt to secure the ropes. Fëanor, disdaining a ramp, gauged the rock of the ship and jumped onto the quayside. Fingolfin landing beside him. Sailors followed with sacks of food, skins of wine and headed for the empty buildings. The captain explained that Olwë would not see the port go to ruin, and occasionally sent people to the island; there would be shelter for them.

They settled in a large warehouse. Fires were built from a store of cordwood laid by, and wine was heated. Someone hung Fëanorion lamps. Outside thunder cracked and rolled across the sky as the sailors served a meal of cold meat, smoked fish, bread and fruit and sat in groups, talking. Fëanor breathed the fumes of the wine and drank. Fingolfin sat beside him, sipped from his cup. He said, ‘Hast thou noticed? It is almost dark outside.’ In the lamplight his eyes gleamed with a fey light. ‘I have never known dark. The rain is stopping. Shall we go out?’

Fëanor called to the captain. ‘How long will we remain here, thinks’t thou?’

‘We took on a little water.’ The man looked troubled. ‘I will inspect the ship as soon as the storm passes. But no more than a day, my Lord.’

‘Very well, Prince Fingolfin and I wish to explore the town.’ He lifted a brow. ‘There is nothing on Tol Eressëa we should be concerned about, is there?’

‘Why, no, my Lord. We dwelt here long enough. A kindly isle. But this storm is a strange one; ‘ware the lightning.’

Fëanor nodded. The same feeling that had laughed at the storm, reawakened at the thought of being in this place, separated by the Bay of Eldamar from the land of Aman. One of the sailors brought him a wineskin and he took it with a smile of thanks.

The air that blew into his face smelled wet and wild, of damp greenery and the sea. When they stepped out of the warehouse, the stones under their feet still ran with water, but the downpour had ceased.

Fëanor often went down into the mines, so he did know true darkness. This was not lightless; there was gloom such as one never saw in Valinor, but it was unthreatening, despite the storm. _We were born to know this,_ he thought. _Day and night, and everything between them._ And this storm, the elements untamed...

They walked on, past the ship, up through the silent, abandoned houses, their gardens overgrown. Trees bent in the wind; their leaves shook censers of water upon their heads.

The street dog-legged up the hillside, houses giving way to larger mansions set back from the road. Fingolfin caught Fëanor’s hand and they ran, coming to the top. Above them, the racing clouds tore apart, blown on the wrack of the the storm and, as they looked up, a star blazed out, blue-white, brilliant. They stared at it, as breathless, as wondering as the Unbegotten who had opened their eyes to starlight.

‘Fëanor,’ Fingolfin said. ‘Fëanor!’

‘I imagine the stars,’ Fëanor said slowly. ‘But now...’ And Fingolfin’s eyes, gazing into his, were as brilliant — and more, lit by the spirit behind them. _I am going to create jewels to mimic that light._ He bracketed them with his hands, imagining, and the greater shadow made them blaze the more. ‘Thine eyes..’

The wind, moist, warm, swirled past them. Tol Eressëa had once been closer to Endor than Aman and, spared the perpetual glare of Tree Light, had retained some of its sylvan wildness. Some flower, battered by the rain, released a sweet scent.

‘Fëanor,’ Fingolfin said again and then rose up a little on his toes. Fëanor felt his fingers push into the damp heaviness of his hair, and his scalp prickled. ‘Art thou looking at me, art thou listening to me now?’

‘Yes,’ Fëanor replied rather huskily. ‘I always listen to you.’

‘Good, because I want to hear nothing — yet — of farseeing devices or anything else that amazing mind of thine imagines.’ A smile flashed, delectable, adult. ‘Look at me.’ His hands held Fëanor’s head. ‘And never mind _my_ eyes. Hast thou ever looked at thine own in a mirror? They are like diamonds in a cold forge. I remember the first time I saw them, I thought they could not possibly be the eyes of an Elf, but a Power, and one greater than any of those on Taniquetil. I still think that.’ He pressed his lean, hard body against Fëanor’s, whose pulse slammed, galloping in his throat. ‘Forty days, forty waxings and wanings of the Trees, until I am come of age. Not long, is it? And our father and my mother would have me married now if I was amenable, if it suited them. Stop seeing me as a boy, Fëanor.’

The warm, exciting wind shook a cascade of drops onto them, and Fingolfin shook his head, laughing. ‘Hast thou never wanted someone — not a dream, not Endor, not freedom — but _someone_ more than anything in life? No?’ He seized Fëanor’s hand again and pulled him, running up the last slope of the hill that overlooked the harbour. The sea heaved under the claws of the wind. Valinor, across the bay was a dark land but for the spear of light from the Calcirya. It seemed a thousand leagues away. Lightning cracked out of the clouds in jagged spears, forked down to hiss on the waves. The storm was running up from the south and whether by Manwë’s power or Ulmo’s, sliced past Valinor without touching. Through a gap in the cloud, Fëanor’s eyes could see the white gleam of Alqualondë off to the north.

There was a stone building on the summit of the hill, its domed roof upheld by pillars. Fingolfin pulled Fëanor to stand under them. Perhaps Olwë had built it to sit in and look toward Valinor. There were old chairs, wood desiccated by the sea air, something never seen in Valinor where nothing decayed. A scattering of leaves brushed across the floor.

Fingolfin turned to look at him. ‘What inducement could the Valar have given Olwë to remove from here?’ he wondered. ‘Alqualondë is beautiful, but how could it compare with this island?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps I will ask him.’ Fëanor was conscious of the strong slim fingers in his, but he glanced away toward the interior of the island, the roll of hills, the dim glimpses of forest, perhaps the glint of a river. Fingolfin followed his gaze, said, ‘We could get lost here.’ In his eyes was the same hectic light of truancy, of — to borrow the ship’s captain’s words — ‘slipping the leash.’ In the tempestuous air, they burned like lamps in his skull.

‘But should we?’ Fëanor stared at him.

Fingolfin flashed him a challenge.  
‘The storm returns, I think. ‘ware the lightning!’ And then he was running over the brow of the hill, following the old road that dipped in lazy bends to woods and fields.

Fingolfin ran as he had in the training fields, light-footed, sleek and powerful, black hair lifted behind him. Fëanor followed, drawn as by a rope of fire, aware that he was smiling. The wineskin jounced irritatingly against his side and he made no attempt to catch up.

A white shape, half-swallowed by trees, likewise seemed to be pulling Fingolfin, or it was somewhere to aim for: some solitary house, long abandoned. He sped over what had once been green lawns and was now a riot of overgrown flowers. The Teleri gardens were less regimented than those of the Noldor, and this had once been the home of a rose-lover. Huge blooms scented the air, heavy as the incense in Ilmarin and far sweeter. Fingolfin disturbed a shower of petals as he ran under an arch; they drifted back onto Fëanor like perfumed whispers.

Fingolfin slowed before the tall door of the house, then set his hands to it and pushed.

A double flight of stairs swept up from the wide hall. Fingolfin was climbing them slowly; he looked over his shoulder at Fëanor, a smile on his mouth, an invitation. The house smelled or roses, of woods, of sun-warmed grass. It was dim, but the marble walls were pale, luminous; they seemed not-quite real. Fingolfin was the most solid, most alive thing in this forgotten place. Fëanor followed.

Upstairs, a wide corridor was flanked by long windows on one side, and the chambers of long-gone nobles on the other. Fingolfin began to run again down the passageway, from grey-light to dark, petals starring his hair, drifting off to lie on the floor.

Lightning flickered and thunder cracked close on its heels as the storm returned. In the last room, the huge window shone white for a moment, Fingolfin silhouetted against the glare. There was no furniture, no rugs, only a huge oval mirror set into the wall. Fëanor had experimented with blacking one side of pure glass plates to make for a sharp, clear reflection, but this one, he thought, was beaten metal. It caught the storm-light weirdly.

Fingolfin said, ‘Let it storm and storm and never cease.’  
  
The lightning was still in his eyes as he turned, came to Fëanor like a warrior of the Outer Lands marching to war.  
‘I did not now thy thoughts until my mother told me that thou hadst spoken to her,’ he said. ‘She told me that thou art a lover of men, and that is why she fears our friendship.’  
  
Fëanor let the wineskin slide from his shoulder. ‘So that is it.’  
  
Fingolfin turned toward the mirror. ‘That is not wholly _it_ , I think. But it explains something.’  
  
‘It explains everything.’  
  
‘She had tried to tell me before that, that thou wert in love with Nerdanel. And thou hast told me thou art not.’  
  
‘Indis lied — or spoke something she wished were true.’  
  
Fëanor came to stand at Fingolfin’s shoulder. He was not that much taller than his half-brother, now; once they grew to full stature they would be of a height, he thought, and taller than their father.  
  
The mirror seemed to shake and gleam in the flashes of lightning and the thunder that rolled after it. He puts both hands on Fingolfin’s shoulders, felt the hard muscle, the straight bar of bone. Under the damp lengths of hair Fingolfin’s face was like the pearlescent stone they had set on Olwë’s tower. His eyes blazed silver-blue fire. Fëanor could hear the hot, shallow shuttling of his own breath. Their eyes met in the mirror.  
‘My half-brother.’ The words came from deep in his chest.  
  
Something feral, untameable burst in Fingolfin’s eyes. In both their eyes. It was unforgivable, the deepest, oldest of transgressions, this hunger for one’s own blood. And, perhaps, it was all the more fierce for that.  
  
And it was a fire that no god could put out, that no doom could ever kill.  
  
Fëanor’s hands moved down, caressing the long, strong neck, and Fingolfin jolted against him, trembling. He slid his fingers over the damp shirt, felt the hardness of the nipples under the fine material. He traced one, felt the slamming beat of Fingolfin’s heart against his fingers.  
  
He did not know what he was doing (and every instinct in him knew exactly what he was doing) as he unlaced Fingolfin’s breeches, snapped impatiently at his own and tugged both down. Both their damp shirts came off, their boots. The air felt chill against the burn of his need. But he could not take Fingolfin, not possess him. He had thought of being with a man enough times to know they could not do the deed (the sinful deed damned and cursed by the Laws) or not here and now. A man was not as a woman, and needed something to ease the way, no matter how eager. He knew that from his own explorations, his need to have someone penetrate him. Now, his length slid along the crease of of Fingolfin’s hind, under his groin. He took Fingolfin’s hardness in his grip.  
  
Fingolfin came apart, melting, shaking, bracing his long legs, the breath coming up in his throat in a moan. His eyes closed, one hand clamping over Fëanor’s.  
  
His cock was burning, silk over pulsing steel, hard with blood, wetness already pearling at the tip, and Fëanor thumbed it, wanting to taste it. He gathered it on his fingers, then reached back, touched Fingolfin’s entrance.  
  
Fingolfin’s teeth broke on a jagged mess of words. He gasped violently, but pushed back, inviting the penetration. Carefully, Fëanor pushed in, marvelling at the tightness, the furnace heat. In the hot silken passage, his finger touched what felt a nub, and Fingolfin gave a sudden jerking cry.  
  
Ah, gods, _gods,_ he wanted to take Fingolfin; he himself was rigid to the point of pain, but he held himself, massaging that place that seemed to give Fingolfin so much pleasure that his muscles shook on their sheaths of bone. The tension in him built and built. He felt like an explosion waiting to rent the air.  
  
Fëanor withdrew his finger to clamp an arm about that slim waist, take the hard cock in his hand again, and all thought vanished in fire. _Fire._ Like the stars, he had imagined what desire might feel like but this, _this_ was the reality.  
  
He was so hard that the gripping pressure of Fingolfin’s thighs around him was almost enough to imagine himself within. His fingers worked the slickness of Fingolfin’s length as he drove harder, faster.  
  
Fingolfin said his name on cries that rose into the storm, urging him on, pleading, cursing the sweetest blasphemies, his head flung back against Fëanor’s neck, fingers like a vise, slipping on wetness, on perspiration. It sounded, felt like, agony, too intense for pleasure. They were moulded together, as if they had been meant to be since time began. Their skin, where it touched and slammed together, forge- hot, wet, clinging.  
  
It was the merest outlier of what it could be, and it was more magnificent than his dreams. _Brother. Half-brother. Blood. Soul. Sin. Forbidden._  
  
The room went white with the force of Fëanor’s orgasm and the full force of the storm erupted outside. It was nothing, _nothing_ , something distant and unimportant. He burned, pulsing again and again. He knew he cried out, a sound of discovery, of pleasure beyond anything he had dreamed, beyond his most erotic fantasy. And it was just the edge of what could be...  
  
They folded to the floor together, panting. He drew Fingolfin back against him, felt the coolness of his hair against his chest, his back. Fingolfin’s head sank against his shoulder.  
  
Fëanor’s fingers were wet with seed; he raised them, tasted the rich, salty musk, savoured it on his tongue. In the dark silver of the mirror, in the flickering light, Fëanor, eyes half-closed in satiation, thought how alike they were; they almost could have been twins. The lightning flared against his eyes, against the mirror, and for a moment he saw another face there, created from light and shadow: white hair, white eyes. It roused him from the afterglow. It was a face he had seen before, dreaming: proud, beautiful but, in the dream, the man’s hair had been black. In the next flash, it was gone.  
  
Fingolfin’s eyes opened, dazzled and dazzling. Fëanor saw him smile. There was no doubt of the triumph in it.  
‘Thine eyes burning,’ he whispered. ‘Eru! Thou art on fire.’

He was; he was. He had broken through some barrier, in this room, discovered a part of himself that had been missing.  
‘So are thine. And I feel like a fool,’ Fëanor said. ‘For not seeing what was before me, not admitting how much I wanted it.’  
  
Fingolfin smiled voluptuously. ‘We had to wait for me to come to the brink of adulthood.’ Then amusement faded, he said, stern as judgement: ‘They may make me wed, Fëanor, as they made thee, through guile and trickery, but it will mean nothing. Nothing.’ In the mirror their eyes clung like a vow. ‘It was always thee, Fëanor. Always.’  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	8. ~ The Mirror of Worlds ~

  
  


**~ The Mirror of Worlds ~**

 

 

 

 

~ Thunder clapped directly overhead. Neither flinched at that or the vivid lightning flash. Their focus was refined down to one another, to the lingering pleasure within them, the afterglow. What lay beyond this room seemed, at the moment, unreal, distant and Fëanor knew that it was always going to be this way when they were together, the passion between them stronger than the clamour of Law or duty or family — except that they _were_ family, which made the tie so much deeper and (Fëanor was no fool) so much more complex and difficult.

It has always been thee,’ Fingolfin murmured. ‘At first I only wanted to be with thee, as a younger brother wants to be with his elder one, but in the last few years...’ Long black lashes dropped over his eyes. Fëanor watched him in the mirror, shadows etched under the high cheekbones, the delectable expression of desire met and matched. _And not even a glimmer of what it could be. What it will be._

‘We are kin, and that troubles thee not at all?’ he asked curiously.

‘I know it is against the Laws,’ Fingolfin said serenely. ‘And doubly so. We are kin yes, and both male.’ A smile flickered. ‘And my answer is no. It does not trouble me. Since I began to feel desire, its face has been thine. Does it concern _thee_? I would not have guessed.’

Fëanor laughed. ‘On the night Maglor was conceived, I took the drug, and before I went into the bedchamber I imagined I was with someone. Someone I desired, that I wanted to bed, who was not just a duty. I only saw their eyes. Blue-silver, like that star. Thine eyes, Fingolfin, but I was not ready to recognise they were thine; I still considered thee a boy.’ Whose then were the silver ones, would they, too, reveal themselves in time? He slid his hands over Fingolfin’s shoulders. ‘I care nothing for the Valar’s Laws — or any Laws! Fire calls to fire, and it must always be answered, even if it burns us to ash.’

‘But I had to make the first move.’ Fingolfin opened those dazzling eyes. ‘As thou sayest, to thee, I was still a child.’

Fëanor smiled at him in the mirror. ‘I would have noticed soon enough, my beauty. I was beginning to. Thou didst merely precipitate this. It was always going to happen.’ _Yes, as soon as we began to awake, shake free of that drugging dew, we were drawn together. To be with thee was enough, when thou wert still growing..._ But now, a threshold had been crossed...no, not crossed, their passion had blasted across all the barriers that should have existed between them.

His hands tightened on warm flesh. Fingolfin responded with a shiver, a moan, his head tipping back, lips parted to reply and then in the mirror his eyes widened, as did Fëanor’s. The silver surface rippled like lake water under a breeze. When the movement stilled, their reflection was gone.

They seemed to be looking through a window. A man stood in some unfamiliar place, some time that felt as if it were long ago, a world that was lost. Dark, bare-leaved trees behind him thrashed in a wind Fëanor could almost feel. He thought he could smell burning, cinders on the air and through it the icy stress of the cold forges. Gems burnt by extreme cold had a distinctive scent and he was smelling that now.

The man himself was achingly familiar, and Fëanor felt Fingolfin stiffen as he leaned forward. A great mane of white hair was caught back from his face, and that, too, was flawlessly white, marked by bold dark brows. His eyes shone like the sun striking Taniquetil’s pristine snows. So white was he, hair, skin and eyes, that it made one think of ice — _No, diamonds in the cold forge._ — but there was nothing cold in the fury that blazed in those eyes. In a graceful, deliberate movement, he drew a black dagger from its sheath and cut across his palm. Red blood welled. He passed the hand over his face and the colour was shocking. His lips moved in words that Fëanor could not hear, and then as if a billow of fire moved across the image, it faded into another.

Another man was seated overlooking a brilliantly blue bay, a huge bridge and tall buildings in the background. There was an alien appearance to them, something not-of-Valinor, although the architecture was not as disturbing as that in Ilmarin.

But it was the man that held their attention. Although his clothes were plain, a dark shirt unadorned by embroidery, sleeves casually rolled back over strong, sinewy arms that showed black, sweeping markings, he was like the centre-stone in a crown. For a moment, Fëanor saw his hair cut short, thick as poured cream about that beautiful, high-boned face; the next moment, it was long as his own, drawn up into a high ponytail that cascaded over one straight shoulder.

Fingolfin hissed. Fëanor felt the same jolt of recognition strike through both of them.  
The man’s eyes were violet, a shock of colour in the flawless cream of his face, and fanned by black lashes. He had the face of a god, or what Fëanor considered a god should look like...which was nothing like the anaemic Valar, Manwë’s sour expression of pompous and perpetual disapproval. Fëanor turned his head toward Fingolfin, and found that same high, sweeping curve of cheek, the lovely modelled mouth. He thought, _He looks like Fingolfin._

Who said at the same moment, on a whisper: ‘He looks like thee. He and the other. Fëanor, what are we seeing? What is _this_?’

‘I am not sure.’ Fëanor rose to his feet. ‘One thing I know, no Teleri made this. I could not, myself.’

The man’s head tilted — _But he is no man_ — as if he heard them. The power emanating from him was enough to burn Valinor to nothing. Precise black brows rose faintly. There might have been a brief expression of approval in them, or something more, a shadow of warmth, but then it was gone. His face was cold as a carving in fine-grained marble, emotionless, yet not as the Valar’s were; behind those eyes was a blasted wasteland. Like the white-haired warrior; he was familiar in more than the architecture of the face. This went deeper. Both these men had known horrors that Fëanor could not imagine. And they had come through them, but not unscathed, rather somehow annealed. _Through the fire, through the ice. Through the darkness._  
He spoke in a rich accent that was unfamiliar and strong as a strange, potent wine.  
‘Quite right, Fëanor. No Teleri made this.’

‘Whom art thou?’ Fëanor demanded. ‘And how canst thou know my name?’

The faintest of smiles, an upturn of one corner of his mouth. ‘I am thine unknown ally, Fëanor.’

Fingolfin said, ‘Thou art causing this storm?’

‘Yes, Fingolfin. I could enter Valinor directly, and I have before now, to complete a certain task, but it causes...unrest, which admittedly can be quite amusing: to see the Valar flutter like pigeons disturbed by a fox.’ Fëanor and Fingolfin both laughed out at that. It was an apt analogy. ‘But to enter it in all my power would put more than the Valar at risk. I care nothing for them, but I do care for thee, and the flashover thou wouldst be caught in.’ He leaned forward, steepling his fingertips, elbows on the wooden table-top. ‘And so, the storm. I can observe thee in Aman, but I can not directly interact without putting thee in danger.’

‘I would welcome a war there,’ Fëanor said through his teeth, smiling.

‘But thou hast never known war, Fëanor. I have. And a war of powers is something else again. Believe me. One day thou wilt be ready for such a war, but the time is not yet.’ He paused. ‘Gods thou art both so young,’ he said softly. ‘I had not realised...So be patient. Thou wilt leave Valinor, in time, but thou wilt need certain skills to dwell in Endor.’

‘The skills of a warrior,’ Fingolfin said. The man nodded. ‘And whom shall we fight?’

‘The darkness, Fingolfin, always. Power or Vala or Elf or whatever comes...Eönwë is the most puissant warrior in Valinor, but Manwë binds him too close. And so _I_ shall have to teach thee.’

‘If thou wilt not enter Valinor, then how?’ Fëanor asked.

‘I can still instruct thee,’ he said. ‘Break the mirror, shatter it.’

Fëanor narrowed his eyes. ‘I rather thought to remove it intact and have it brought back to Valinor.’

‘It would be too obvious,’ the man said. ‘The Valar would take it from thee. Break it, and then each of thee may take a piece and keep it with thee. In that way, I may remain in contact with thee without arousing suspicion.’

Fëanor’s attention sharpened. ‘Of course, a broken mirror will still give one the whole image. Very clever. But who _art_ thou? I will have a name.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Names always matter,’ Fingolfin said steadily.

‘Sometimes.’ He turned his head, giving them a view of a steely, breathtaking profile. ‘But I was taught to know myself as no-one, as nothing, and even long after that is an apt a description as any.’

Fëanor was caught in shock. He looked at the man and strangled a desire to laugh in mockery, or perhaps hysteria. Bare of adornment, in a plain shirt, the man exuded more pure power and beauty and sheer charisma than all the Valar as one. Beside him, they were diminished. It was they who seemed as nothing.

‘Thou art the Creator,’ Fingolfin said as if it were a fact. ‘Art thou not?’ Fëanor flashed him a sidelong look. ‘Who else could reach us like this, send a storm between us and Valinor?’

‘Thou didst leave a book, my unknown ally.’ Fëanor strode to the mirror. He was naked, but it troubled him not at all, nor the man behind the mirror, it seemed. ‘It was thee, and thou didst change the dew.’

‘I entered Valinor then for a while, yes.’ The hard-sculpted face hardened even more, like a statue rimed with ice. ‘Not in my fullest power, enough to rattle them.’ He leaned forward. ‘The Valar are thine enemies yes, at least Manwë, Varda, and Námo; the others mostly go where they lead. Irmo and Oromë would aid thee if they could. And the triad who rule are hampered by wanting to appear _good_ , pure, _reasonable._ To unmask, show thee what they truly are? They have not the courage, not yet. But what thou wilt face on Endor has no desire to hide its malice.’  
  
‘Speakest thou of the Dark God, of Melkor?’ Fëanor questioned. ‘Because he is held in the Halls of Mandos, or so the Valar say,’ he added cynically.  
  
‘Yes, he is held there at the moment, but not forever,’ the man told him. ‘And his mightiest servant, who was once named Mairon, was never captured, nor were all the dark spirits that served Melkor in Utumno, his fortress. There are demons of fire, called Balrogs, and Fell-wolves and the orcs — the orcs who were created from the Quendi he captured and corrupted into darkness.’  
  
Fëanor’s skin shivered. ‘ _What_? I know of Cuiviénen, and mainly through that book, since few will even speak of it, but I have never heard of Balrogs or orcs. How...how could Melkor do that to us?’  
  
‘Melkor is not a Valar, Fëanor. He is stronger, but even so he cannot create. Creation lies in the Flame Imperishable alone.’ He seemed to be holding back an elusive smile. It faded with his next words. ‘So he twists, corrupts, turns things from their path. The first orcs were captured Elves. Later they bred, and they breed fast. They live for violence and war, plunder and booty. And they will hate thee because deep in their hearts they know what they once were.’  
  
‘The Valar know of this?’ Fingolfin demanded.  
  
The man shrugged. ‘I doubt they could see into Utumno, but they warred with him in ancient times, before the Elves ever awoke. They know what he is capable of. They would never admit it, but they are afraid of him, and so keep him imprisoned.’  
  
‘Thou hast the power to destroy them? The Valar and Melkor?’ Fingolfin asked, but there was a statement in it. The purple eyes, terrible and beautiful rested on him.  
‘Yes. And I will not.’  
  
‘Why not?’ Fëanor shot.  
  
‘Not because I feel any compunction in unmaking them, Fëanor. I will not do it because of thee, the Elves. And a weapon is not forged by kind words and gentle touches. I was not. I considered it, forcing thee into ascension, into godhood.’ _Godhood_? Fëanor mouthed the word. ‘But one can see what the gods born out of the universe are like.’ He spread one hand. ‘They have no need to strive, no compulsion to learn. Even their wars are games, for they cannot kill one another. They may certainly be hurt and injured, but only the Creator can unmake gods. Some do wish to learn, but the Valar do not. The triad especially want simply to rule and to control the Elves. They would dwell here unchanging until Time itself ends. And would keep thee here as their pretty little servants. But the Quendi _can_ learn and grow. So thou wilt, and must do so alone. If I were to give thee the pain and suffering that living will bestow on thee, it would kill thee. There is mountain to climb and not an easy one. Doubly so because the Valar fear thy powers and what may come of them.’  
  
Fëanor stared at the man for a long moment. ‘I hate to say it, but I see the logic in thy words. I did not pick up my tools and make a flawless piece without learning, practicing. And the Valar never have to learn, so why would they? They can live static, unchanging for eternity. But _we_ cannot. At least, why should we? And they surely knew that. Is that why they drugged us?’  
  
‘Yes, that was their purpose, to keep thee quiescent, tame. I could not see that happen. I do not believe, Fëanor, that thou couldn’t ever have been tamed. Sprint of Fire.’  
  
There was a long silence. Fëanor could see some kind of vessel, white-beamed, leaving a wake as it tracked across the blue bay; but there were no sails to move it, no oars dipping and rising.  
‘There are many universes,’ the man said at last. ‘I do not mean worlds, but universes, all the numberless galaxies where life-bearing planets are found, such as Arda, of Earth as it is called here. I am speaking to thee from a different reality, another universe. Imagine them as a closed book filled with pages; each part of the book, each telling a story, a part of the whole, yet different. The one I come from...ended.’  
  
‘Ended?’ Fëanor repeated, a chill running up his spine. ‘How?’ _Another reality_?  
  
‘When the Flame Imperishable that is Life met its opposite, that collision of power destroyed the Universe. There were a few survivors, and I — I cannot be destroyed.’ His voice was wry. But his eyes...It felt as if a blow knocked Fëanor’s breath out of him. He stared into those purple eyes and saw it, the ending of all things and the desolation left behind. And more, deeper, _worse_... _Unbearable_.  
  
‘Then thou _art_ Eru,’ Fingolfin reached out to touch the mirror as if he too, had sensed the wound, the terrible what...betrayal? ‘Thou art not as I had imagined.’  
  
A brief flash of amusement came and went in the violet eyes. ‘Now, is that a compliment or not?’  
  
‘I had thought,’ Fingolfin shrugged. ‘That from what Manwë says, that Eru was just an inflated version of him. Worse, perhaps. The ultimate judge of our sins, just as they say Námo judges in his place.’  
  
The man raised a hand. ‘Manwë has never spoken to Eru. There is a place, beyond Time; indeed, they are named the Timeless Halls. Eru is supposed to dwell there. He does not. At least not in this universe, or in any of the others borne out of the wreck of the old. The Valar found the Timeless Halls beautiful and empty, but they knew _someone_ must have made them. So they invented a Creator fashioned in their own image — naturally! just as people always create gods who mirror themselves! — and purport to hear him, to do his will. And the others...they are not perfectly certain, and would like to imagine Eru also speaks to them, so they do not challenge Manwë’s lies.’

‘A Creator who is on our side, and opposed to the Powers,’ Fëanor mused. ‘Imagine that.’  
  
‘Imagine that,’ the man echoed. ‘It is rather more complicated, Fëanor. There is a being called Eru, yes, and then there is myself. We are not precisely opposites, but —‘ He stopped. Fingolfin’s hand gripped Fëanor’s bicep. The silence was weighted like the aftermath of an agonised scream. The man’s jaw was rigid. ‘But...there is a...problem when creating universes.’ He sat back as if deliberately calming himself, pushing a memory away. Behind him, the bay and the city blurred and ochre dust whipped across a barren land. A vast stone monument reared up through the haze, its peak towering impossibly high, a spire of black stone.  
Then it faded back into the glittering sea.  
‘The Creator,’ the man continued, ‘uses the template that is in his mind. What he — or she — knows. Fëanor, if I asked thee to design a jet fighter aircraft, a computer motherboard, an iPhone, wouldst thou be able to?’  
  
‘Since I have no idea what those things are, no.’  
  
The man lifted a straight shoulder. ‘Exactly so. Those things do not exist in thy world, but they do, here. A creator must have an image in his mind of what he wants to bring into being. And so what he created, was very like the universe that had gone. And in that reality, the Valar were too similar to the Valar here, with all their biases and narrow-mindedness, and their faults. The same enemies have arisen. And thou, the both of thee and others, are also almost exactly as thou wert.’ A faint smile.  
  
‘We existed in that universe?’ Fingolfin exclaimed.  
  
The man inclined his head, a gesture like a bow. ‘Thou didst.’ He looked away again. ‘But I could not bear to see thee destroyed. I could not imagine a universe without thee in it. And so.’  
  
‘Thou art familiar,’ Fëanor said. ‘And we have seen another, in this mirror, before thee, a man whose hair was once black and is now white. We have seen him before, in dream. He, too, is familiar. Did we know the both of thee?’  
  
The silence stretched. A breeze stirred the branches of a tree behind the man. Sunlight glittered on the glass of the tall buildings across the bay. At last he said, ‘I will not tell thee everything, Fëanor, Fingolfin, especially not now where thine actions could cause the Valar to tighten their hold on thee, or more. But this I will say: Do not ask Finwë of the white-haired warrior, but Indis might have some few things to tell thee.’  
  
‘Indis?’ Fëanor exploded. ‘Indis has _nothing_ to say to me!’  
  
‘In this instance, she may. It is true that she loved thy mother.’  
  
Fëanor laid a hand flat on the mirror. His flesh tingled.He had the uncanny sensation that he might push through it, join the man on the other side, in another universe. The thought was incredible. But he needed to know something else, an answer to the weight, the burden of guilt that had sat upon his shoulders for years.  
‘Tell me this: did my birth kill her?’  
  
‘Fëanor.’ The man rose. He was very tall, slim through the hips, with long legs. Fëanor’s sex, already half-hard, surged with blood as the man approach the mirror and a slim, strong hand flattened to cover his own. There were callouses as from hard manual work, but it was the hand of an artist, a musician, elegant. ‘She named thee well and truly, Míriel, _Spirit of Fire._ She loved thee. Even had she foreseen her death, she would have borne thee. And do not think the Valar could not have aided her, given her strength. They allowed her to fade. But nothing is ended, _nothing is ever ended._ ’ His eyes burned into Fëanor’s. ‘All Elves can be reborn; the Valar would not permit it, but her soul is not lost. So never despair. The Valar fear thee; they always will. And that knowledge must be always in thy mind. Very well, If thou wilt not speak to Indis, perhaps thou wilt, Fingolfin. And there are others of the Unbegotten, or their children born in Endor who have held their secrets close to their heart since coming to Valinor.’ He stepped back.  
  
‘But thou couldn’t simply tell us now, and will not.’  
  
‘I will not,’ the man agreed. ‘I could make thy path so smooth for thee without travail, without sorrow, heartbreak, tears, war, hate. Thinks’t thou that Valinor is a cage?’ He laughed without mirth, a cold, mocking sound that chilled. ‘That is nothing, _nothing_ to what _I_ would do to thee. I would shelter thee from every storm, allow nothing to harm thee. And thou wouldst be as children who never grow into adulthood. Always playing, never _living._ Immortal children until this universe itself ends.’  
  
His face was terrifying, beautiful beyond any word. The bay and tree shimmered out and the man stood in nothing, hair undulating about him like the rays of a black star. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once as he said, ‘Thou _must_ do that as the Unbegotten did in Cuiviénen. Thou must walk through the blood and the fire. I am sorry for it, but there is no other way for thee to come into thy glory. Because _I_ do not wish to keep thee as my pretty little servants. I am not as the Valar. Now, Fëanor, break the mirror.’  
  
Fëanor stared at him. He swallowed. ‘But—‘  
  
‘The ship’s captain has sent people after thee. Dost thou think all Olwë’s people can be trusted? Or even the King himself? There is little time.’  
  
Fëanor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I should have suspected that.’  
  
‘ _Break it._ Now.’  
  
As if compelled, Fëanor laid both his hands on the mirror. He used words to make, to bind, to strengthen; he had never used them to shatter. He closed his eyes, as the man said, ‘Thou also, Fingolfin. Aulë gave thee the words, but the power was already within thee. Remember it, and that thou hast not even touched the shining edges of thy potential.’  
  
Fëanor felt his half-brother’s hand touch his. In his mind he saw a complex structure, the element that was silver. _Yes..._ So, remove this, this...and this and...  
  
He stepped back as a sharp snap! sounded. Fissures spread across the mirror’s surface. He saw the man on the other side split into a thousand images, saw them all salute him.  
  
And the mirror cracked, blew out of its frame and then... _slowed_. The glittering pieces, lazily spiralling, vanished into an area where the air roiled, dark and turbulent, then they disappeared into darkness; Fëanor watched them wink out one by one until only two were left, hanging in the air. They fell with a metallic tinkle to the floor. He stooped to pick one up. It was octagonal, the edges perfect, and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. From it the man said, ‘And so: pieces of this mirror go out across all the universes.’ And he smiled; it was heartbreaking. ‘I thank thee. Go, and keep it very secret.’  
  
The image faded. Fëanor’s own reflection gazed back at him, eyes wide, excited. 

He looked at Fingolfin, who was looking at his own mirror fragment. The storm was moving on, the thunder rolling away.  
  
‘He never did tell us his name,’ Fingolfin said. Then: ‘Fëanor. He left the book, he negated the effects of the dew. He _is_ our ally, and we thought it was simply us against all the Powers.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Fëanor agreed. ‘But as he said he is not going to catch us if we fall; he wants us to grow, to live. And I see the merits of that. When thou wert a boy (So short a time ago!) thine ambition was to be a warrior. Warriors need enemies to fight. And it seems there will be enemies. Wouldst thou prefer what he said he would give us? Peace, nothing to harm us or hurt us? Never experiencing the real world?’  
  
Fingolfin’s head shook even before Fëanor finished speaking. ‘No. Did the Unbegotten not experience the world? It is Valinor that is unnatural, sterile, not Endor. We belong there, peril or no.’  
  
‘And yet, we know nothing of war, of danger. But it was all there, in his eyes. And I trust him. I do trust him.’ And it had nothing to do with the alarming sexuality that had hit him like a blast from an opened forge. It was eye-opening — _mind_ opening — in more than one sense because, in Valinor, people did not exude that sense of sex, of being a people who enjoyed sex, who revelled in the sheer physical ecstasy of it. Even he, until a little while ago, had only daydreamed of enjoying sex with a partner he desired...But the god in the mirror had exuded sensuality, the resonating memory of the kind of sex Fëanor was determined to experience.  
  
‘And I,’ Fingolfin averred. ‘He said we must walk through the blood and the fire. As he has. And the white-haired warrior too. No Valar has such pain in their eyes, or such power.’  
  
‘That is truth, my beauty.’ Fëanor murmured. ‘Now what do we do?’  
  
‘We live, my brother. And now we know we are not alone. We live and —‘  
  
‘—And love. Yes,’ Fëanor caught him, their mouths clashed in a kiss that was more violence than tenderness.  
  
‘But we can never tell anyone.’ Fingolfin’s eyes burned, his breath came in pants. ‘We have to leave Valinor, make our own realm with our own laws.’ He laid one hand on Fëanor’s mouth. ‘Think: what could the Valar do if they knew? And not only to thee, thou hast sons. These mirror shards are not the only things we must keep very secret.’  
  
Fëanor drew in a sharp breath. Yes, he thought, and his father had tried to warn him. For himself he was not worried, but his sons, and Fingolfin...  
‘It will not be easy,’ he predicted.  
  
Fingolfin’s smile blazed. ‘I hope not,’ he said provocatively.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

There was no time between their return to Alqualondë and Fingolfin’s departure for the brothers to find any time alone. The city was buzzing with the aftermath of the storm, so unprecedented and violent. It was rumoured, said Olwë, that even Ulmo could do nothing to calm it. Fëanor’s eyes met Fingolfin’s and found them brimful of wicked amusement. It was wonderful to know that there was something more powerful than the Valar; it set a lightness, a sense of anticipation and freedom in Fëanor’s heart.

All the Valar were in council, apparently, but still there was no time to meet. Finwë had sent people from Tirion, ostensibly because he and Indis had been worried about Fëanor and Fingolfin, caught in the storm. Maybe they were, but their quiet, alert servants also acted as their eyes, and those eyes were fixed steadily upon the half-brothers.

 _It begins now, then,_ Fëanor said. _The silence, the secrecy._ Fingolfin agreed. It was frustrating, aggravating, but there was also a sense of thrill, of a high-stakes game being played under the noses of Valinor.

Nerdanel told Fëanor that Maedhros and Maglor had been fractious and tearful when the storm raged, and apparently Maedhros had feared that his father and Fingolfin would be lost and and never come back. His mood seemed to infect Maglor who set up a lusty wailing. Fëanor had no intention of just brushing off their fears and he and Fingolfin spent time with them until both were calmer. Olwë’s tower could wait on his sons.

Fëanor did snatch a moment with Fingolfin before his half-brother’s departure to Aulë’s mansions, dragging Fingolfin against him, infected almost to madness by the feel of his body, delighted by the instant, fiery response. That time on Tol Eressëa seemed like a heated dream and Fëanor realised that even though the Tree dew no longer drugged the Elves, the Valar’s miasma still seeped out like a kind of poison. He felt it perhaps the more for having been on Tol Eressëa.

‘Build Formenos,’ Fingolin whispered through their frantic kisses. ‘And some way or another, I will come to thee. Wilt thou be at my coming of age?’

‘I would not miss it,’ Fëanor promised. ‘What wilt thou do with the mirror shard?’

‘Set it into something, perhaps a hand-mirror, something easy to carry on me. Because I must, we both must.’

‘Yes, I too.’

Another kiss, another caress, and they parted.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Fëanor remained at Alqualondë to finish his work and after, to learn to sail a ship. Naturally, it would need more the one person to crew a ship, but Olwë’s good humour on the completion of his tower extended to an open invitation for anyone to come with Fëanor and learn. Fëanor meant to take the King up on that offer.

But first and foremost of his projects was Formenos. When Fëanor returned to Tirion, Fingolfin was still away and he told Nerdanel over a late supper that he wanted to begin the work there in earnest. They could live quite comfortably in tents, he said, if she wanted to come with the children.

The sojourn in Alqualondë seemed to have done Nerdanel a great deal of good. She professed herself less weary and decided that she and the boys would accompany Fëanor into the northern hills. All Finwë said was that he trusted Fëanor would be present for Fingolfin’s coming of age, which would (of course!) be celebrated in the Halls of Ilmarin.

Fëanor detested Ilmarin, but so did Fingolfin. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I will be there.’

Finwë looked as if he were swallowing warnings and advice: _Behave thyself,_ his look exhorted, and Fëanor wanted to both laugh and rage at him. Whatever secrets he might hold of Cuiviénen, he would never tell, had locked them behind a mouth grown straight and prim with the years.

The spot Fëanor had chosen to built Formenos was beautiful, a valley half circled by rough hills where pines sang on the heights. The valley was scattered with woodland and a small river fed by streams from the hills. They set up tents and open-air kitchens and workshops, and the supplies started rolling in, marble, granite, semi precious stones, metals. Fëanor completed the workshops first and his first task there was to set the mirror shard into a small hand mirror of onyx and gold with a hinged lid to cover it. He looked into it, but it gave him back nothing but his own reflection, and yet the image of the god he had seen, the words he had spoken, was too vivid to doubt. He had so many questions, but the man (Creator?) had counselled patience. Easy for him to say, far away in another world.

He worked long hours, planning during the Mingling, and often in the workshop during Telperion’s silver. The Tree light was not so glaring here, shaded by the hills and Nerdanel planned out gardens. Maedhros paddled in the streams, alarmed the masons by climbing all over their building work, and Maglor began to crawl.

Fëanor did not forget his desire to make a far-seeing device, but more urgent was to create Fingolfin another circlet with gems that matched his eyes. He had little time before Fingolfin’s coming of age. Only the finest blue diamonds came close, and even they did not possess the brilliance he required. But that was easily remedied, using the same technique of will and intention he had harnessed to create Fingolfin’s begetting day circlet. He remembered how his half-brother’s eyes had caught the lightning flashes in the abandoned house, and at the thought of what followed he had to bite back a groan. He could not refrain day after day, from glancing down the road that lead south to Tirion, hoping he would see Fingolfin riding up it. But what if he did? There was no privacy. Yet it nagged at him that Fingolfin did not come, assailed him with doubts. He needed to be sure that his half-brother still felt the same way. It was a new sensation for Fëanor who had never cared what anyone thought of him, and not pleasant.

He closed his eyes, forced down both hunger and uncertainty to unleash it into creation. It was common practice for him to use anger, frustration or (now) lust in his work.  
He sorted the clearest and most brilliant gems, and set them out. Three of them...why three? He did not know, save it provided a better balance to his eye than two. The centre stone would be the largest. He laid his hands over the gem and saw Fingolfin’s eyes in his mind, how they blazed and glittered with passion. Heat grew in his heart, his mind, the diamond vibrated under his hands.

_Brother. Lover. Kinsman. Sin. Passion. Beauty. Glory._

Fingolfin.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	9. ~ Sour Notes and Sweet ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Sour Notes and Sweet**

 

 

 

 

~ Nerdanel told Fëanor plainly she was not be subjecting the children to Taniquetil (at least when they were young) and therefore could not attend Fingolfin’s coming of age. In this matter their thoughts were completely in alignment and Fëanor departed with two companions only. Beside his gift to Fingolfin, he carried, in an inner pocket of his cloak, a slim mirror-case.

At first, he had looked in the mirror often, but saw nothing but his own reflection. While working on the case, he sometimes thought he glimpsed a flash of blue water out of the corner of his eye, or sky, or a flitting lilt of long, black hair, but it was gone when he examined more closely. Once, there was a glimmer of silver.  
He forced himself to stop looking, to not demand a summons; no doubt the god would speak when the time was right. Fëanor felt (for no good reason save the obvious: that the god had reached out to him, to Fingolfin) that if he persisted, he _would_ be answered, that the nameless (as yet) god _wanted_ to speak to him, but that he waited. For Fëanor to return from Taniquetil, perhaps, or for Fingolfin to come to Formenos and speak to them together?

In the short time he had come to Formenos, more and more Noldor had come from Tirion, wanting to work under Fëanor, to learn from him, to make a part of his household. These tended to be the artistic dreamers who, Fëanor suspected, had woken from the effects of the Tree Dew more quickly than others, and discovered their passion for knowledge, their distaste for rigid Tirion.  
He was more than happy to welcome them. The incomers were evenly divided between genders and most were unmarried. It was the beginning of a secondary court — and the beginning of the schism: Fingolfin at the palace, his father’s right hand, Fëanor in Formenos, not always, but often enough to make it his own place, separate. A High Prince, it would be said, who did not take his duties seriously, who left Fingolfin to shoulder them.

Fëanor and Fingolfin had not communicated with mind-speech until a few days ago, when Fingolfin left Aulë’s mansions for Tirion. In the presence of a Valar, they deemed it too great a risk but, as soon as Fingolfin was on the way home, his voice exploded into Fëanor’s mind like a lightning flash. _Desireloveeagerness_ and an emotion Fëanor could not immediately recognise until he realised that it was simply doubt. As much as he himself did Fingolfin need to know that Tol Eressëa, what happened between them, was still alive and urgent. Their mental merging had sent blood into Fëanor’s phallus and to heat his cheeks.

The journey up Taniquetil brought with it an increasing sense of pressure; Fëanor felt it as if the heel of a hand were pushing against his brow. It was, he thought, the disapproval of Manwë, for strange winds gusted about them, flurrying snow across the road, and the huge statues that lined the way glared down at him. He set his teeth and laughed in his mind, that he should so have annoyed the Valar he counted as something of a triumph, like winning in the Games. He did not dismiss them, one could not. He knew what they had done to tame the Elves. What he did not know was what they might yet attempt.

 _I know how much thou doth hate Taniquetil,_ Fingolfin said. _I do not ask thee to go there. I mean to come to Formenos, after. But father said thou wert coming_? His question curled between them.

 _I am coming,_ Fëanor retuned warmly and as rewarded by a glow of delight.

The old sense of dull fatigue grew the closer they came to Ilmarin. Fëanor filled his thoughts with Fingolfin, that time on Tol Eressëa. The abandoned house, The storm. The passion. It was astonishing to him, now, that he had not noticed how his half-brother was growing into such a stunning young man. But now, he would never again be able to view Fingolfin as anything other than a lover.

Finwë’s party had arrived a day earlier. Already, nobles and their families drifted around the gardens or sat, straight-backed in the Hall, wearing prim social smiles, keeping their voices low. Varda and Manwë had not yet arrived, though Ingwë was in his usual position at the foot of the dais, with his daughter in attendance. Since Tol Eressëa Fëanor regarded him with a deeper heat, wondering what he had been like in Endor, before Valinor reduced him to this serene wax figure.

Then a touch on his heart brought his head around like a hunting hound to the scent. He saw Fingolfin at once, standing beside Olwë whom had come up from Alqualondë to honour Fingolfin’s coming of age. Olwë saw Fëanor too, and both of them came toward him, smiling. But there was a fierceness in Fingolfin’s expression that was lacking in Olwë’s. Fingolfin, despite the oppressive atmosphere, was looking at him as if he wanted to eat him.

Fëanor’s blood turned molten at the thought. It was so deliciously transgressive. He inclined his head to Olwë and took the hand Fingolfin extended. Their wrists gripped and a shock ran up his arm to jolt his heart. Every nerve thrummed. He was close to pulling Fingolfin close and kissing him that he began to draw on their joined hands before he realised what he was doing.

There was a rustle around them and the smell of old ice. Manwë and Varda had entered, all eyes turning to them as the Elves bowed to the ground. His hand still linked to Fingolfin’s, Fëanor barely noticed them.

‘People of the Vanyar, the Noldor and the Teleri, we welcome thee here to celebrate the coming of age, of Fingolfin, Second Prince and son of King Finwë and his Queen, Indis.’ Manwë’s voice sounded high and thin as a stretched harp string.

Fingolfin cast a look at Fëanor under those long lashes, and flicked his brows in wry amusement as he disengaged to rejoin beside his parents.

‘Fingolfin, son of Finwë, step forth to receive thy blessing.’ Manwë said and Fingolfin walked toward the dais. He looked magnificent, Fëanor thought, his thick mane of hair in braids, his cloak settled over his wide, straight shoulders.

Manwë’s speeches were always the same and always dull. Fingolfin weathered it, standing tall and commanding, as he was instructed in obedience, chastity, duty to his father, the Valar and so on and on, until it became simply a mist of words. At a gesture, Hilyare brought forward the casket containing Fingolfin’s gift. It was quite plain, save for the starfire pattern in sapphire upon the lid.

Manwë’s voice broke off. Fëanor looked up, met those cold, cold eyes and lifted his brows interrogatively. Within him, and how carefully walled off, he could not know, a voice — the memory of a voice of silk and smoke and rich wine: _I do not wish to keep thee as my pretty little servants. I am not as the Valar._

Were they still concerned about the strange invader to their realm, he wondered, who had so easily breached their barriers, then departed unseen? It made him feel as if someone stood at his back, guarding him, but that was an error, the god in the mirror did not wish to coddle the Elves. Rightly. And still, it made a difference.

Manwë resumed his speech until at last, with a last exhortation to Fingolfin, he resumed his seat and the gifts were brought. Finwë and Indis presented theirs first, a beautiful ring intagliod with Fingolfin’s name, then Ingwë, then Olwë. Fëanor stepped before his half-brother next, and placed the casket in his hands.

The shadowless light of the hall took on a luminosity as Fingolfin opened the lid. The light strengthened, glimmering, and when he looked up, his eyes were the gems Fëanor had created.

There was a rustle, a murmur that grew as Fingolfin lifted the circlet into view. It was simple, white gold, save for the jewels, somewhere between blue diamond and the pale brilliance of aquamarine, but more beside: the light within them came from no gemstone but Fëanor’s memory of how Fingolfin’s eyes had blazed on Tol Eressëa when the lighting struck them, when the passion within him was unleashed.

The memory was there between them. Fingolfin’s face shivered and then lit as if a white fire burned behind his skull.  
‘This is...’ His voice failed, and he swallowed, then said strongly: ‘Impossible, Fëanor. Almost too beautiful to be real. This is fit for a god.’

Fëanor smiled. He did not say audibly or mind-to-mind, but thought, _No. None of these are worthy. Only thou._

‘Please,’ Fingolfin said quietly. ‘Place it on me, if thou wilt.’ He inclined his shining dark head, and Fëanor placed it on his brow. The contact with Fingolfin seemed to amplify the luminescence of the stones. Aulë gave a rumble of approval.  
‘Magnificent work, Fëanor,’ he said.

‘My thanks, Master Aulë. All I do is bring out what is within.’ And he did not mean the gems.

 

 

At the formal meal, Fëanor was seated to the right of his father, and so could not exchange any words with Fingolfin and after, Fingolfin was the centre of attention. But so was Fëanor, which surprised him until he realised that the nobles simply wanted him to create something for _them_. They were always requests, but the tales from Olwë and the sight of Fingolfin’s gift had acted as the perfect showcase. Had Fëanor cared for such things he would have been flattered. As it was he said that he had a great deal of work to do, and could not accept any such requests at this time.

Finwë and Indis both looked closed-in, stern, barely exchanging one word with him, which did not concern him in the least. He excused himself and went out into the gardens.

‘Prince Fëanor?’

He turned, truly started to see Ingwë whom, it might be imagined, never moved from his servile seat at Manwë’s feet. Fëanor had come to view it as an excessively odd pose; had it been anyone else, (Fingolfin, for instance) there would have been more than a hint of sexuality in it.

‘Lord Ingwë,’ he nodded.

He had not seen in the Hall, but now he noted that Ingwë wore the ring Fëanor had presented him. Fëanor hid a smile, wondering what the action might mean.

‘I have heard much of thy work In Alqualondë,’ Ingwë murmured. ‘Olwë considers thee brilliant.’

Fëanor shrugged. ‘I am still learning. I am glad Olwë is pleased. But surely _thou_ canst not want to commission me?’ He glanced around the absurd (disturbing) architecture, and the eerie ‘otherness’ of the gardens with a mocking little smile. ‘Surely thou hast everything, here, at Manwë’s feet.’ And he could not forbear to sneer.

Ingwë surprised him again by blushing, though his voice cooled. ‘Of course. Merely I feel I did not thank thee properly for my gift. Thy brother’s crown is stupendous.’

‘As I said to Aulë, I merely bring into the light what is hidden within the jewel — and the wearer.’

Ingwë glanced at his ring as Fëanor, feeling almost as if he were nudged, said, ‘I wonder, King Ingwë, as thou wert there: was my father involved with anyone in Cuiviénen?’

Ingwë’s eyes betrayed him in one flash of dense blue. Then, he was under control, or was _controlled_. He said serenely, calmly: ‘I remember very little about those times, Prince Fëanor.’ And he turned away. Fëanor stared at his straight back and wondered if he had been ‘instructed’ to speak, or whether it was an impulse of his own clouded mind,

He turned away, sought out Larcatal and Hilyare, who were sitting together and drinking the White Mead still so lavishly served at such celebrations, then he made his way into the gardens, toward the bower of ferns where he and Fingolfin had shared a meal. He sat down in the dense greenness and waited.

 

 

It was the light that alerted him (for Fingolfins’ tread was silent) a glorification of the air so unlike the chalky starkness of the Valar’s light. Then Fingolfin pushed through the fern-fronds, his eyes blazing like the gems on his brow. He threw himself down, straddling Fëanor’s lap, and kissed him as if he were thirsting. Fëanor hardened to pain as he caught a long black braid in one hand.

 _Brother. Lover. My obsession._ And Fingolfin was, more than his craft, more than his desire to leave this cage of lies and control.

‘Not here,’ he said as they disengaged, breathing heavily. ‘Although the thought is glorious.’

Fingolfin smiled. ‘I will come to Formenos, I promise.’ He lay back beside Fëanor. ‘Father says I will be too busy. Nonsense. I will make the time.’ He linked his hand into Fëanor’s, turned his head. ‘I never want to be apart from thee.’

‘It is going to be difficult, my beauty. And must be very secret, at least while we are still here.’

‘I know.’ Fingolfin drew their hands down to his mouth, kissed Fëanor’s knuckles. ‘I will take secrecy over nothing.’ Even that light touch of his mouth stirred Fëanor’s phallus. ‘Hast thou looked in the mirror?’

‘Yes, but there is nothing. Thou?’

‘When I could, when I was alone, and no. I have seen nothing either.’

‘Do not look, not here,’ Fëanor warned. ‘Wait until Formenos.’

‘But thou didst bring it?’

‘Yes.’ Again he smiled and then rolled and reached for Fingolfin and his desire overwhelmed him like an explosion in the heart, the soul, a fire that seemed to burn from his flesh. They grasped and grappled, moaning fiercely into the kisses as if they had been starving for one another’s touch since time began. No, Fëanor thought hazily, this desire had existed long before Time. He thought of the other universes, the one that had been destroyed, even there, he thought, even there...

Lust unlocked the doors barred to caution; they loosened their breeches, rubbed against one another and even this, even this... _so right, so good._ He bit into Fingolfin’s shoulder as he came, and Fingolfin cried out into Fëanor’s neck.

Panting, wracked by ecstasy, Fëanor rolled onto his back.

‘Is it always going to feel like this, with thee?’ Fingolfin asked breathlessly.

‘Oh, I hope not.’ Fëanor laughed softly. ‘It will be _far_ more incredible.’

‘Is this love, Fëanor? If it is, it is not something I have ever felt, or even imagined before.’ The circlet blazed as Fingolfin raised himself, but oh! his eyes...! They outmatched the gems as living flesh the marble Nerdanel worked.

‘No.’ Fëanor glinted at the sudden shock. ‘No, my beauty. It is more.’

They straightened one another’s braids, their clothes. Fingolfin left first, casting a hot smile over his shoulder, miming a kiss. Fëanor waited a short time, then followed him.

 

 

He had not taken into account how difficult it would be to feign mere brotherly friendship with Fingolfin. Even when they returned to the Halls, with Varda’s and Manwë’s cold gaze chilling the great room, it was a struggle not to gaze at his half-brother. When he did, he found Fingolfin looking back. A dangerous game, Fëanor thought, at least here.

The day dragged interminably, sluggish with more speeches until the guests began to leave. Finwë and Indis were the last to go, and Fëanor lingered to ride down with them. At the way station where they halted, it was, if anything, harder, because they dined together and then went to their rooms. It would be so easy to go to Fingolfin. Too easy.

Tormented by desire, he did not sleep and in the end, took himself in hand. He felt Fingolfin’s mind melt into his own, knew that, in his own room, he was joined in this act of release and the mental image of Fingolfin, naked on his bed, his head flung back as he worked at himself, brought a bone-shaking orgasm. He heard Fingolfin’s mental cry as he, too, released.

When they saw one another in before leaving, Fingolfin’s look scorched. And, all the remaining ride down the mountain, was an agony. He was almost glad to leave them, to turn west to Formenos after making his formal farewells.

 _I will come,_ Fingolfin told him, looking back. _Expect me soon._

 

 

Maedhros greeted him with a shout of: ‘Papa!’ and came running from the pavilion to throw himself at Fëanor, who picked him up as Nerdanel came, leading Maglor by the hand. Maglor also wanted his father to hold him, and so one boy on each hip, he kissed Nerdanel’s cheek as they went back to the pavilion. He took a cup of wine with her, and related the coming-of-age ceremony — or some of it, before going to see the workers. The supper hour approached and most were packing their tools. What had come to be called ‘Nerdanel’s Garden Room’ was almost finished its long glass windows looking out over what was, at the moment, a building site but which would be a delightful pleasaunce one day.

After supper, he walked with the boys and his wife around the whole house, lifting Maglor when his legs became tired then, when the light burnished into silver, he told Maedhros and Maglor a story until they slept in their own partitioned-off chamber.

‘I hope thou wert firm with them,’ Nerdanel said, when he told her of the requests he had received. ‘Even while thou wert gone we received more messages from Tirion and even Alqualondë for special commissions.’

‘Oh, I cannot take on any more now,’ he agreed. ‘I have my own projects. And yes, I did tell them.’

He never became accustomed to Nerdanel looking at him with desire; it never felt natural. But that expression was in her eyes now, and so he excused himself a moment to done a light, loose houserobe and to unlock the personal chest that held his gems — and the bitter drink that would allow him to do his duty.

It was nothing like what he felt for Fingolfin, but it was necessary. A duty. Later, when Nerdanel slept, he left the pavilion, walked into Telperion’s silver and thought about the stars that lay beyond. And Fingolfin. Always Fingolfin.

 

 

Fingolfin was not the first person to arrive from Tirion; two days later Rúmil arrived with Laurorne and a baggage train composed mainly of books.

Fëanor was pleased to see him. Maedhros was already reading and learning basic arithmetic but, while Fëanor delighted in teaching him, he could not tutor his son and attend to his projects. Besides, Rúmil was an excellent teacher. Fëanor had a spacious pavilion set up for them, which they professed themselves happy with.  
‘It will not be the first time we have lived in tents,’ Laurorne said.

Disappointed, nonetheless that Fingoflin had not come, Fëanor, after the evening meal, devoted himself to his far-seeing devices. They would take the shape, he thought, of globes or glass or semi-precious stone. The eye of the mind would be more receptive when there was something to look at. But that was just the beginning. He decided to begin with smaller stones that would see only within Valinor, just to test them. The largest stones would be able to see for thousands of leagues, across the seas and the vast landmass of Endor.

A voice in his mind said: _Thou wilt not have to rely on dreams and visions, Fëanor. I will show thee Endor._

Fëanor spun to where he had lain his cloak over a bench, and wrenched out the Mirror, opening it. The god looked back at him, seated in the same place as before with the bay and the city backing him.

 _Where hast thou been_? he demanded.

_Busy. Thou wert very close to being discovered, thou and Fingolfin, in Ilmarin. Be careful._

_Careful_! Fëanor exploded. _I do not want to be_ careful. _I detest it. I hate it!_ He slammed a hand down on the table. _I am not sure I can do it,_ he admitted.

The violet eyes looked back at him, stern but not cold. ‘Thou must. At least until thou art gone from Aman.’

Fëanor smiled reluctantly. ‘Easy to say.’

‘Oh, I know it will not be easy. But it is not a bad trick, Fëanor, to be able to conceal one’s emotions. Thy passions have sabotaged thee before.’

‘These other universes?’

A nod.

‘The ones thou wilt not tell us about?’

‘Indeed.’

Fëanor exhaled in irritation. ‘Very well.’

‘To return to the _Palatiri_ —‘

‘Ah, I have made these before then?’

Those eyes glinted in appreciation. ‘Very quick. Yes. All they are are amplifiers for the mind, really. Eventually, thou wilt not require them, but at this time, when thy minds have been long affected by the Valar and the Tree dew they will be useful. Begin with something thou doth know, Tirion, for instance. Think of it and look within the stone.’

‘Yes, I had considered that. I will make the first of obsidian,’ Fëanor mused. He liked working with the strange, sharp black stone. Aulë had shown him the blocky litters of it at the foot of the Pelori south of his mansions. Once, he said, some of the Pelori had been volcanic, and obsidian was only found in such places. Black volcanic glass. The colour of Fingolfin’s hair when polished — or his own. Or the god’s. Great chunks of it lay in the deep trays ready to go into the cold forge.  
‘Thou wert also,’ he continued, ‘to teach us warrior skills.’

‘Perhaps _teach_ is the wrong word, Fëanor. Rather, it is helping thee to remember the forgotten. But first, thou must create weapons.’

Fëanor flashed a smile at the mirror. ‘Now thou art indeed telling me something I already know.’ He set the case upright, hinge open, on the bench. ‘What is thy name?’

The expression of interest, even affection, melted away. His face was hard and cold; a stranger’s face without pity, even for himself.  
‘It is not relevant. I will exist in this world, and I have to remember what I was.’ A shrug of wide shoulders. ‘It is not likely, but we may meet.’

‘And so? Why wouldst thou speak to us, and not remind thyself, or use me — for instance — to remind thee? Not that I can remember anything of that other universe.’

‘Not yet. Thou wilt.’

‘And thou?’

‘It hardly matters. I do exist or have existed in many realities. In most, I died. In a very few I ascended, as thou shalt; I am determined on that. It is the natural progression for thee. Thy natural state, in fact. And it does not require my intervention. Not this time.’

‘Ascended.’ Fëanor tasted the word, savoured it. ‘Clearly it does matter. If thou didst create this universe.’

The beautiful mouth twitched. ‘Very well. As I told thee, there were two of us, myself and Eru, called the One, the creator. We met in the nothing before my universe came into existence. He wanted to take my memories to create a new universe. He had destroyed his own.’

‘Wait,’ Fëanor said. ‘Wait. Destroyed it?’

‘Indeed.’ Dryly. ‘And so we fought, and in that battle the universe was born, and Melkor was torn out of Eru. All he desires, or all he did desire,’ he went on, voice flattened to metal, cold, hard, ‘was to rejoin with that part of him.’

‘Where is _he_?’ Fëanor asked.

The god gestured. ‘Somewhere. That is all I care to know.’

 _Something more to this,_ Fëanor thought, narrowing his eyes.

‘Nothing is truly forgotten. Nothing is ever ended. Eru is staying out of my way.’ There was a flash then, in the brilliant eyes, an explosion of emotion that was both terrifying and heartbreaking. The birth of a universe — and its death. All contained within the god’s unearthly eyes. Fëanor sat down in front of the bench. He was not accustomed to concealing his feelings. This man, this god, was. Possibly to his detriment.

‘Should Eru be something that concerns us?’

‘I do not know,’ the god said. ‘He is not as Melkor but, because he came from a different universe, I cannot see into him. If we meet, the power would destroy reality itself. And so, I let him go.’

Fëanor repeated: ‘Let him _go_?’

‘One universe had already ended; there was nothing left. To destroy him might have affected everything else, every... _potentiality._ I could not risk it. I wanted to bring back the dead.’ There was a beat of silence. Again, Fëanor saw a vast edifice whipped by ochre winds. They moaned with desolation beyond the endurance of any soul.

‘The Monument, or so I call it.’ The god’s voice came through the dirge like the ominous threat of distant thunder. ‘A crucible for gods. It was used in the Last Battle, the Dagor Dagorath. A few survived besides me, because they went inside it.’

The mournful sound ceased, melted back into the original image. Behind the god, the sky was calm and grey over the water of the bay.

‘A very few survived, Fëanor. Eru was one of them because, like me, he cannot be destroyed. I believe that he still seeks to rejoin with Melkor but Melkor will always wish to be autonomous, having tasted it. Concerned? Yes. Eru is a mystery to me.’ A press of irony. One hand clenched on the table, the bones whitening under the skin. ‘I cannot call him evil, but he is a deceiver, a betrayer, and I have no insight as to what he truly wants except, as I said, to be as he was before Melkor was torn from him. But that being destroyed the universe he came from.’

Fëanor stared into the mirror. There it was: Deception. Betrayal. Viscerally, he felt it as a rot of cold in his guts. He reached out, traced a fingertip down the lovely line of the god’s cheek and jaw. He felt the jolt of power. The purple eyes widened as if the god, too, felt it.  
‘We have always been told that the Creator can never manifest on Arda, or even in Valinor,’ Fëanor murmured, as his continued his ephemeral caress. ‘His power would break it.’

The god pushed himself up from the table as if pulling back. ‘Eru did not manifest himself on Arda,’ he said tightly. ‘He was born into it, as was I. It did mean that some of his powers were bound, left behind on the _outside._ I cannot enter any world without leaving behind most of my own powers. But to be born into the world seems to satisfy the constraints.’ He turned restlessly; the great tail of hair pouring like jet waves down his back between the bar of wide shoulders. ‘He may do the same again. Why not. It works.’ He spun back, a glint of anger in his eyes. ‘But let us leave this now. Weapons, Fëanor, of the finest steel, and alloys blended with it.’

‘Yes.’ Fëanor was not ready to drop the subject but the god clearly was; there was too much pain. Fëanor was not immune to it, though he burned to know more, to know _everything._ He always had.

‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘Did we lay together, in that old universe?’

The shock this time was different; there was a heat in it that answered Fëanor’s question, but he slammed down on his smile. Of course he would want this one. The god leaned both hands on the table, corded muscle showing where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled half way up his arms, and even that was erotic.

 _Born of sin,_ Fëanor thought. _Made for sin, and passion, and power, and to deal out death._ His phallus thrummed with the rush of blood.

The god did not reply, only looked at him, and his eyes were opaque as gems, giving nothing.

Fëanor turned then, as the opening door billowed rain-scented air into the workshop.

Fingolfin stood, a dark shadow, save for the silver-blue burn of his eyes.  
< br />

The heat flashed into pure pain, pure need. Fëanor said, ‘Thou didst come,’ and Fingolfin’s white smile flashed like a diamond. He put out his hands.  
  
‘He said to thee, in another universe, thou didst want too much,’ the god’s voice came through that starfire burn of passion, even as Fëanor moved toward his half-brother. ‘And thou didst say there was so much to _want._ But truly, there were only two that were the beat of thy soul, that thou couldst not live without.’  
  
Fingolfin shut the door with one shoulder, and then they were in one another’s arms.  
  
The mirror reflected nothing, now, but them.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	10. ~ To Love and Learn ~

  
  
  
  


**~ To Love and to Learn ~**

 

 

 

 

~ Fëanor would later say that his life began when the poison of the Tree Dew leached from his mind and body —but that he began to truly _live_ the day Fingolfin came to Formenos.

‘I told thee I would come.’ Fingolfin’s voice came rough and breathless through the kisses. And, ‘No more waiting. Now, Fëanor. _Now._ ’

There was a low divan against one wall; sometimes Fëanor would lay there to concentrate on an idea, even to sleep if the hour was late, and he did not wish to disturb Nerdanel. Now, the both of them moved toward it, hands caressing, mouths joined, then loosing their clothes, impatient, leaving them on the floor. Fëanor snatched up the oil he used in the workshop, coating his fingers before they went down together.

There was no uncertainty in Fingolfin’s eyes, no fear; they burned into Fëanor’s like the star they had seen on Tol Eressëa, silver-blue and unearthly, _hungry_. When Fëanor gently pushed his slick fingers into the tight entrance, they were swallowed, gripped. Fingolfin gasped, ‘More!’ And when Fëanor pushed in deeper, stroked, Fingolfin bucked his hips and moaned, and caught at Fëanor’s shoulders. ‘Now. _Now._ ’

Fëanor did not want to hurt him but — gloriously — it seemed as if Fingolfin was ready for him, for the push, the slide, though he exclaimed, bit into his own hand to stifle the cry, his eyes huge with shock.

‘Shall I stop?’ Fëanor forced the words through his teeth, felt himself hardening to the point of pain at the feel of Fingolfin around him. He did not think he could stop, not now.

‘No! _Go on._ More, I want _more._ All of thee, Fëanor, I want to feel thee inside me.’

It was new and yet within him — in both of them — was a knowledge that felt more ancient, older than time: that this was how it should be between them.  
It was nothing like the effects of the drug; that was a short, brutal burst of lust that left Fëanor feeling vaguely unclean. This was passion, this was burning within its fire, creating one greater between the two of them, watching Fingolfin’s face blanched by bliss, by a striving toward orgasm which stretched, every thrust bringing them both closer — and ah! the _feel_ of him, muscular heat, tight as the grip of his own hand when he brought himself to release, wet silk...

The orgasm was impossible, felt in the mind, in every nerve of the body, exploding, blazing among a million stars, creating new ones in the spaces between. He could burn here for eternity, he thought, creating flame, becoming flame...Glorified.

They lay together in the fuming aftermath, when they could spend no longer, floated light and fiery and free, words passing back and forth in their minds, hands gliding over one another’s bodies. And then it was Fëanor who lay back, learned the shape and weight of Fingolfin inside him, the startling sensation that melted into something wild, earthy, fierce, and _needed_. It was elemental as the storm at sea, lightning-bright, even dangerous. Before this moment, he had been starving.

‘I cannot be without this now,’ Fingolfin said after. The closed doors shut out Telperion’s silver glow, but his eyes glowed in the dimness, a fire of purest blue and brightest silver. Fëanor was always astonished by the clear, ice-fire brilliance of his half-brother’s eyes.

‘Nor I.’

‘It was always thee.’

‘And now, my beauty, it is always going to be _thee_.’ They rested their brows together. Time was passing; they could not stay here much longer.  
‘They will make thee marry,’ he said after a moment. ‘Thou knowest that.’

He felt the jolt of denial before Fingolfin said, ‘They will _not._ And I will be very much on the alert for the trick they played on thee and Nerdanel.’

 _I am sure thou wilt,_ Fëanor thought to himself. _And it still will not be enough._

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

He woke the next morning from a dream of fire, a detonation that shattered worlds. There had been emotion: grief beyond bearing, hate beyond measure. And love. So much love. As he sat up, Nerdanel sleeping peacefully beside him, he experienced an instant of disorientation, wondering where he was, who the woman in the bed was. His heart pounded; his flesh burned.  
And then the memory of the night before flashed upon him, banishing all other thoughts. His body still held the feeling of having been wonderfully used, and he revelled in the sensation.  
He rose quietly, gathered his clothes from the press, and went to look at his sons. Both were deep in slumber; he smiled, touched their hair gently, then went out to the bath house.

Fingolfin’s tent had been pitched not far away; it was the first object he looked for, and he stared at it, spirit lifting like the larks that were taking to the bright air above the hills. He felt as he imagined the Unbegotten must have when they witnessed their first morning, sensed the beauty and freedom, the potentiality of their new lives. Fëanor felt reborn, and knew he was smiling, had to force himself to turn away, to wash and dress, while his blood ran like light and his heart beat a tattoo of pure delight.

It was early, the workers not yet stirring, but from the kitchens came the scent of baking bread. He was often one of the first awake, and would let Nerdanel and the boys sleep on before taking them their breakfast. The cooks greeted him and he asked for a platter for both himself and Fingolfin: bread and honey, fruit, cups of cool, fresh ale.

Fingolfin was asleep in the inner room of his tent. The long, muscled line of his back, bare where his sleeping-braid confined the thick fall of his hair, gleamed like polished pearl in the dimness.

Fëanor shuddered from head to heels, setting the ale in the cups dancing. It was a feeling harder, sharper than love, just as wine is sharper (and so much more potent) than the warm, comforting milk of childhood. More dangerous, too. Fingolfin had driven a dagger into his soul, a weapon of fire and passion and hunger, and now it was a part of him, indissoluble. Fundamental as his blood.

He set the tray on the folding table, walked to the bed, and pressed a kiss on Fingolfin’s wide shoulders. He remembered how they barred the light above him, how they looked as Fingolfin lay back, hair spread around them. Fëanor’s stomach fluttered, melted into heat.

Fingolfin stirred, moved, and his eyes, for a moment, showed the same startled expression as must have been in Fëanor’s own when he woke. Then they ignited like fired gems and he moved up into Fëanor’s arms. Their kiss instantly turned wild. Fëanor’s hands drew the coverlet down Fingolfin’s naked body, exposing the flat planes of his stomach, the shaft already hard with blood. He swallowed it to the root, and Fingolfin flung out his hands arching, gasping. The feel of Fingolfin burgeoning against his tongue, his throat, building to release was enough to bring Fëanor there without any touch, with just his own desire, his mind, his memories, and when Fingolfin came so did he, in a rush of heat and ecstasy like lava, like pain.

‘I thought it was a dream,’ Fingolfin murmured. His face glowed like an alabaster lamp, so beautiful Fëanor’s heart twisted, but he smiled.  
‘As did I.’

‘And what wouldst thou have done—‘ Fingolfin traced his fingers down Fëanor’s cheek. ‘Had it only been that?’

‘Made it a prophecy.’ And they laughed and kissed again.

‘This is going to be so hard,’ Fingolfin groaned. ‘As soon as I see thee I just _want_ thee.’

‘I know.’ Too hard. He did not know how to conceal love; could not imagine hiding what he felt for his sons, and this with Fingolfin, how, _how_ could he pretend nothing was between them?

‘We have to, until we leave Valinor. Just until then.’

‘Yes. I want a kingdom on Endor. Thou and I together, ruling as kings.’

‘ _Yes._ And so let us see Endor. Stop distracting me!’ But Fingolfin’s hands did not stop moving, and he spoke with his lips against Fëanor’s, who groaned into it, and at last pulled back. They panted.

‘Oh gods, I cannot — ‘ Fingolfin pushed himself up, splendidly naked; when he reached full growth he would have a body to outmatch any of the Valar. ‘Breakfast?’ He raised a beautifully arched brow. ‘It is thee I would eat.’

‘And I could devour _thee_. I have never felt such need.’

Their eyes met, serious.

‘It is not like love,’ Fingolfin said slowly. ‘Is it?’ Fëanor shook his head. ‘This is...so much more.’ He drank some ale and tore a hunk of the bread.

‘It is more,’ Fëanor agreed.

 

 

Later they went to the workshop, set out a mirror. For a moment there was nothing but a vague movement in the glass, then the image sharpened into clarity. It was not the black-haired god they expected to see, but the man with white hair. He was walking, his stride like a king’s, his face set in resolve, beautiful and immaculate — and sorrowful. So much grief, so much pain, an ocean of it. His eyes glittered like the snowfields of Taniquetil, but more brilliantly. They might look like winter, but behind them glowed a strange internal fire that would not be put out. Fëanor felt himself yearn toward it, as if some tide, some pull of the blood drew him close to the man, with his cut-glass features, all his strength and hidden passion, his mourning for something lost. Fingolfin drew in a shaking, difficult breath. His shoulder touched Fëanor’s, hot under the fine lawn of his shirt and the sense of familiarity, of affinity grew stronger.

 _Who art thou_?

The image rippled like light passing over a polished blade, then cleared again as under the gentling of a hand. The man appeared again, this time his hair was as black as their own, and his face, his expression was was quite different: there was a joy in them that had been absent in the other glimpses. His eyes burned silver as young Maglor’s, molten, smiling, as a pair of hands reached over his shoulders, slow, sensual and slid down his chest. He swung, drew the man into his arms, into a kiss. The lover’s face was hidden, all they could see was a fall of dark hair, but his response, his desire was bright, heated.

The picture ebbed into shimmering darkness that became a room lit by one lamp that cast a glow over a low bed, whitewashed walls hung by embroidered wool. On the bed the two men made love, and this time the other man’s face was clear, head thrown back eyes closed, mouth parted.

It was their father’s face. It was Finwë.

Fëanor’s reaction was simple and uncomplicated outrage. He felt no embarrassment at seeing his father in an intimate situation, and in any event, this was long ago, before Finwë ever came to Valinor, before he ever sired children. No, his firestorm fury was directed at the fact that Finwë had reacted so violently when Fëanor demanded why he might not desire males. ‘We lived in ignorance, filth, like rutting swine,’ his father had said.

He came to his feet, Fingolfin beside him, and turned toward the door, wanting to ride to Tirion and confront Finwë and his hypocrisy. He kicked aside a wooden stool.

‘Fëanor!’ Fingolfin grasped his wrist. ‘No.’

‘Knowest thou what he did?’ Fëanor flung at him. ‘He lied, at least by omission, and when I wondered if he himself had ever found pleasure with another male, he struck me.’ It had hurt his pride more than his flesh, and still rankled, because it was then, surely, that Finwë had conceived the plan to marry him to Nerdanel to lock him into conformity, the dullness of Valinor.

‘But thou canst not go to him without revealing how we have discovered his lies without revealing these mirrors, and then the Valar would surely know.’

Fëanor paused, breathing hard. He closed his eyes. Fingolfin laid his hands on his shoulders, a warm, steadying grip.

‘His brother,’ Fëanor said eventually, beginning to cool. ‘He almost admitted it once, almost said it. Why did he turn away from him? And what happened to him? Why does no-one ever speak of him?’ He returned to the table where the mirror sparkled, touched the cool surface.

This time there was no blue bay, but a bedchamber, long drapes stirring in a breeze against the darkness beyond. A large room, a huge bed, two glowing lamps. The god sat at a table, backlit, save for his eyes that glowed amethyst. His hair was drawn over one shoulder in a great plait.

‘Didn’t thou want us to see that?’ Fëanor demanded.

The man tilted his head. He wore a night-robe, open at the neck, showing a slice of hard-muscled white chest.  
‘Ah,’ he responded. ‘I see. No, the mirror is not controlled in that way, but perhaps _someone_ wanted thee to see it.’

‘Who _is_ he?’ Fëanor’s hand slammed down on the table. The man raised a a brow.  
‘So beautiful even in thine anger,’ he said, which had the effect of throwing a boulder into the torrent of Fëanor’s rage. He was almost inclined to laugh in surprise. Fingolfin did. The purple eyes smiled a little.  
‘Very well. Perhaps thou shouldn’t not ask Indis. She, after all, is bound by the same restraints as Finwë and all the Unbegotten who came to Valinor, though she may choose to speak of her own volition. His name was once Élernil, when he woke beside Finwë in Cuiviénen. His brother, yes, in soul, though the Unbegotten were born in the womb of the mind.’

‘Star prince,’ Fingolfin said softly. ‘A fitting name. What happened to him? Why is he changed?’

‘He — along with others — were captured by Melkor and taken to his fortress of Utumno. Most of those who were tormented and experimented on became the first orcs, forgetting what they had been, monsters.’ The full mouth was hard, nameless feelings locked behind its richness. ‘But there were a few, a score, who did not. In the dark of Utumno they burned white and became as thou hast seen.’

‘He survived?’ Fëanor questioned sharply. ‘He escaped, then, he and the others?’

‘Melkor _sent_ them out to lure in other _Quendi_. He thought it was his power that had changed them and enslaved them,’ dryly, ‘And such was his ego that he could not admit they might have burned free of his control. But that is exactly what they did; in the moment of changing all his bonds on their souls were loosed. They gave him no reason to suspect, until they were gone from Utumno.’ He leaned his arms on the table, clasped his hands. ‘When the Valar took war to Utumno, Melkor did attempt to call them back, but they resisted him, though it cost them in pain. Élernil lead them, the first of them to transform. He had been the true leader and chieftain of the Noldor and he leads them now, those who changed, who took the name _Ithiledhil._ Élernil took another name, feeling that he was no longer the man whom had entered Utumno. And that is true. But he was not defeated; he and his companions were refined. He is called Edenel, now.’

‘Edenel.’ Fëanor tasted the name. He looked like a leader, a king, more than Finwë ever had. There were similarities between them, but as many differences: Edenel possessed the same refined, steel-hard beauty as Fingolfin, as the god in the mirror; there was less decision, less power in Finwë.

‘Did our father not search for him?’ Fingolfin asked incredulously. ‘Had my brother been taken by the Dark, no power on this world or any other, could have prevented _me._ ’

Fëanor turned his head, smiled as he kissed Fingolfin’s smooth cheek. ‘Yes, and none could stop me, either.’

‘The leadership of the tribe fell to thy father when Élernil disappeared,’ the god told them. ‘And others too, vanished, those who did search for him. No doubt Finwë deemed it his duty to hold his people together, not to leave them leaderless. It was a valid reason; he did have a responsibility.’

‘But thou hast reservations,’ Fingolfin said acutely.

‘I never claimed to be logical.’ Wryly.

‘He was glad of the excuse, was he not?’ Fëanor challenged.

‘What makes thee say that?’

‘He was jealous. One only has to see them together.’

There was a moment of silence. In the background, the drapes billowed in a sudden gust of wind. Shadows ran across the walls like smoke.

‘In the beginning, Finwë did love him.’ The god broke the moment. ‘But then he began to want more, to want children, the one thing that Élernil could not give him. And the women his desire alighted on would first have chosen Élernil, and Finwë knew it. Yes, he did grow jealous. There was even a part of him that was relieved when Élernil went missing, and never returned and,’ he added fairly, ‘a part of him that has never stopped feeling guilty.’

‘And so he should feel guilty,’ Fëanor said savagely. ‘Even the thought is ignoble! So he wanted my mother and Indis, and his brother, the other half of his soul, stood in the way and was better gone.’ He turned to Fingolfin. ‘We will seek him out, Edenel, on Endor.’ Looking back at into the mirror he surprised a strange expression in the god’s brilliant eyes before a blink of long lashes swept it away.

‘ _Yes,_ ’ Fingolfin agreed.

‘How did he, and the others, resist?’ Fëanor swung back to the mirror. ‘Why were they changed rather than fall into corruption?’

‘Fire calls to fire, Fëanor. Élernil’s fire is different to thine own, and yet in some way, thou art kin.’ His eyes hooded briefly. ‘And think of what thy name means, _Spirit of Fire_. Even before thou wert born, thy spirit reached out to him, and ignited his own flame. White and pure and fierce. It defied the Dark.’

Fëanor was momentarily at a loss for words. But Fingolfin watched him, shining with pride, with some species of hero worship, and he swallowed the words he was about to say: _I do not remember._ How foolish; of course he did not.  
‘I wish I remembered.’

‘But thou doth; it is imprinted within thee.’

‘Show me,’ he said, and sat down.

The god’s eyes mapped his face. ‘Very well.’ He leaned forward and, like a swimmer’s hand emerging from water, his own slid from the mirror. Fëanor almost leaned back, it was so shocking to see it there, real, solid, fine-grained white skin, callouses, the beginning upward sweep of black tattoos. Then, setting his teeth, he gripped it, living flesh, warm and firm, crackling like summer lightning against his.

‘It will not be pleasant,’ the god warned him sombrely.

‘I do not expect it to be.’  
Fingolfin’s fingers covered his and then —

There was a heartbeat of darkness and then he saw Élernil in some red-lit place of agony and despair. There was an impression of underground, far deeper and darker than the mines he had worked in, explored for earth-gems, an unguessable press of rock overhead. And greater than all, more terrible, the weight of a god’s mind, a hammer of madness and malice.

Élernil’s black hair hung down about his face as he was forced over a stone table, his thighs pushed apart. A man was walking toward him, inhuman in his beauty and coldness, hair white-gold, eyes burning red through a patina of lavender.

Fëanor watched as if he stood before the bound Élernil, whose face, upturned, showed the tautness of his jaw, silver eyes braced for assault. His captors were things of dark fire, manes streaming about them, alive and scorching.

Fëanor did not comprehend what rape was, not then. Now he saw it, as the god shimmered into the shape of a huge wolf, greater than any that walked the forests of Aman, fur pale, eyes still dreadfully intelligent. And it mounted Élernil as a dog takes a bitch in heat.

Horror exploded in Élernil’s eyes as the creature pounded into him, and everything in Fëanor’s soul reacted, detonated into a rage as single-minded as a sword. Fire detonated, consumed Élernil, wrapping itself around him and he screamed soundlessly within it as it ran up his hair, consumed his eyes. In the midst of it, he burned _white._

Fëanor’s breath came in furious gasps. Fingolfin’s hand gripped his so hard it was painful. Through the mirror, the god watched them, his eyes unblinking.

Fëanor felt sick to his stomach, shaking. He rose, went to pour a light wine into two cups, almost slopping it. His teeth rattled against the rim as he drank, and Fingolfin’s eyes were blasted by what he had witnessed.

‘God’s,’ Fëanor said. ‘ _Gods._ Was that...that was Melkor?’

‘Oh no. That was Mairon, who will be called Sauron.’ The reply was light, almost disinterested. ‘His mightiest servant, and whom outlasted him, in the old universe. He could take different shapes. The Fell-wolf was his personal favourite.’

The wine sank into Fëanor’s stomach and, slowly, the tremors ebbed away, but the god’s words thrummed in him: _Mairon...personal favourite._ But when his eyes narrowed on that hard-planed face, he saw nothing. Nothing. No emotion at all.

He said, ‘Thou didst see what was done to Élernil, and how he changed; it was thus with the others, Elves close to him; something within him reached out to them, too, in their torment.’  
  
Fëanor tipped the remainder of the wine down his throat and flung the cup away.  
‘There is no punishment great enough...I _swear..._ ’  
  
‘Peace,’ the god said, sharp and cool as a dash of icy water. ‘Do not waste thyself on anger, Fëanor. Not now. It is not the time.’  
  
‘But there will be a time.’ It was a promise.  
  
A nod. ‘There will, yes.’  
  
‘What is wrong?’ Fingolfin asked.  
  
‘I told thee: my heart wishes to protect thee.’ One hand curled protectively, as though he could cup them within and keep them safe. ‘My mind knows I cannot. The Valar are gods and powerful, but Melkor is more.’  
  
‘And yet they defeated him,’ Fëanor pointed out.  
  
‘So they think.’ Dryly. ‘As it was, they had help.’  
  
‘Whose?’ Then, his voice lifting: ‘ _Thou_?’  
  
‘Each universe created is similar to the one that is gone, as like to it as thy sons are like to there.’ The god gestured with those graceful fingers. ‘There are small differences, not many. Let us say that the power was available to them and they used it, subconsciously, to chain Melkor and bring him to Aman.’  
  
‘And thou didst permit them?’  
  
‘Fëanor, I would never allow the Valar to use _my_ power. No. It was Eru’s. I was somewhat...occupied. And there is a symmetry in the events; I am not certain I would have prevented it, had I been aware.’  
  
Fëanor caught back anger and questions both with an effort. It was something in those violet eyes, the same anguish he had seen in Edenel’s: betrayal, horror, irreparable loss. He felt the edges of it, a distant echo in himself — memory, or presentment? The thought brought a chill of ice to his heart.  
  
‘Manwë prides himself on his purity and judgement,’ the god said with a frosting of contempt. ‘And he believes that Melkor is penitent; his ego cannot comprehend that Melkor would lie and dissimulate, be unaffected by him. The one thing I will say of Melkor is that he sees exactly what the Valar are. So, after his term of imprisonment is served, Manwë will release Melkor on parole. And Melkor will see into the minds of the Elves as though through glass.’ He frowned. ‘I may have to do something about that, but it is for the future. For now, there is much to do, to learn.’  
  
‘Very well,’ Fëanor agreed reluctantly. ‘I thank thee for allowing me to see what happened, though it sickened me.’  
  
‘Ah, my dears,’ The god put out a hand, as if to reach through again, but did not. ‘I know. Thou art so young, the both of thee, and yet thy souls are far more ancient. I cannot tell what thou wilt remember, but thou wilt need _every_ memory, both good and bad, They will help arm thee for the future. And it is I who should thank _thee._ ’  
  
‘For what?’ Fëanor was mystified. It drew a gleam of amusement.  
  
‘Events in the present can affect events in the past. It has happened before, that I know of. It was necessary for thee to reach out to Élernil. And so thou didst. Just now.’  
  
‘ _What_?’  
  
‘As I have said,’ still the flickering appreciation, the glow of warmth. ‘there is much to learn. A very great deal. Shall we begin?’  
  
A boom of thunder echoed. ‘Excuse me. A little of me was in thy world a moment ago, I must deflect the interest of the Valar.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Fingolfin had said he could not be long away from Tirion without Finwë sending messengers, and so they crammed those days as full as they would hold — and most of the nights, too. They went out, ostensibly to hunt in the hills, and here the god taught them how to fight, at first using their bodies as weapons, and then with knives. It was not difficult once they assimilated the rules, the movements, felt as if they donned some garment long neglected. The god demonstrated the moves, then watched them seriously.

Both sought to emulate him. In dark leather, his hair drawn up into a high tail, he was lethal and gorgeous. They did not doubt he was a killer, and a master of that art. At times, he almost seemed to smile as he observed them but Fëanor knew that his lack of laughter was not personal but lay in the wreck of his emotions. Something had crippled him so deeply that there was no room left for frivolity.

When the swords were ready, they practised with those. This required greater concentration, for they did not, from the beginning, spar with anything less than killing weapons.  
‘Neither did I,’ the god said. The quiet hills rang with the sound of steel on steel, the curses and exclamations, the laughter, but usually they were silent, concentrating.

There was (always) time for the passion which grew with each feral bout of lovemaking until Fëanor could not imagine how he had lived without it. There was no cessation of desire; rather it grew. He could not look on Fingolfin without wanting him, then and there, and when those incredible star-blue eyes met his in mirrored hunger, it became a furnace roar of demand.

The hardest time, for both of them, was the evenings, when Fingolfin took his meals with Fëanor and Nerdanel. The boys prevented too much awkwardness, for both of them liked Fingolfin and drew attention away from the crackling spark that ran between the half-brother’s. Fëanor thought Fingolfin far more skilled than he at dissimulation, at adopting the persona of brother-prince and that nagged at him. It should not be easy to hide what was between them.

And there was the _Palantiri_ , the sights that grew in them, were fixed in them as if in amber, all taken from the god’s mind. They showed Endor from shore to shore: the golden beaches, the wild mountains and forest, the great river valleys. Untamed and beautiful it looked to them — until one day, when the vision took them north over a green plain toward where a range of mountains menaced the clear skies.

‘The Iron Mountains. Beyond them lies the lands of ice and the polar regions. Here is Melkor’s second fortress, called Angband, the Hells of Iron, where he will return.’

They both gazed at it; to them it was nothing but a high mountain amid others, three small peaks lifted above the peak, and yet...was there something— a faint haze rising from those blunt peaks, as if the rock vented steam from far below. Fëanor could not deny the sudden strike of cold into his heart, pain that flashed through his nerves. He pushed them both away.

 

 

It was not all learning. Fëanor would not neglect his people. When he was closeted in his workshop they knew not to disturb him, but there were many who desired his tutelage and, especially, his hard-won praise, and he enjoyed teaching. He slept but little, buoyed on passion and delight.

When Nerdanel indicated that she wished him to lay with her, he performed his duty without even the semblance of pleasure. Before experiencing Fingolfin, it was something he did as a man might dig footings for a house, a task that gave him no joy but needed to be done, aided by the pernicious drug. Now that he knew what sex could — should — be, he like despised the fact that he was forced into a performance like a stallion covering a mare. The stallion would at least have more desire than he.

He did not blame his wife; he was even fond of her in a way and counted her a friend. She had her own needs and both of them had been manoeuvred into the marriage, but her acceptance of it (and her contentment within it) far outmatched his. Resentment at the position he found himself in was beginning to take root. He was not certain how long he could conceal it.

Fingolfin mentioned the marriage the next day as they worked, after long looks at Fëanor’s face. ‘She loves thee,’ he said.

Fëanor straightened. ‘Why would she? I have done nothing to encourage her love.’

Amusement crossed Fingolfin’s face. ‘Thou art so delightfully modest Fëanor, when thou art known as the most beautiful Elf in Valinor.’

He laughed. ‘I am not modest, my beauty. I know all my attributes, all my faults. But they are unimportant unless I use them. Certainly I never used them on Nerdanel.’

‘Yes, I truly believe thou didst not realise the effect thou didst have upon me — and still have. Or on her. But my point is: thou needst do nothing to attract. Why thinks’t thou these people come to Formenos? To learn from thee, yes, but also to be with thee. Thou hast all the charisma our father lacks. In some way, thou hast inherited more of Edenel than Finwë.’

Fëanor set down his tool. ‘Whatever the reason, I cannot be held responsible for what people feel about me.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I am beginning to hate this sham, this travesty.’

‘Yes,’ Fingolfin said. ‘I do not envy thee anything except thy sons.’

Fëanor smiled. ‘I do have sons worthy of envy,’ he agreed, and then, in a deliberate effort to dispel the gloom, he turned, half leaned back over the table inviting. ‘I do nothing to attract?’ he teased. ‘Truly?’

Fingolfin’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating; he flung himself between Fëanor’s thighs, thrusting against him, both of them hard, the play igniting instantly into an desperate need.

It was unfortunate that the messenger from Finwë considered it his duty to personally deliver a message from the King, unfortunate that he should knock then, and try the door, which was not, at this time, locked. He saw them moving away from one another, flushed, tousled, wide-eyed and Fëanor saw him take his own sounding of the situation while his voice remained calm as a windless lake.

After, when he had taken refreshment and returned down the long road back to Tirion, Fingolfin said quietly: ‘We have to be more careful than that. He knows what he saw, but he is enough of a courtier to hide it — until he speaks to our father.’

‘I do not _want_ to hide it,’ Fëanor hissed. ‘We know what is between us, and it goes back further than us; to our father and his twin!’

‘Neither do I wish to!’

‘And if we did not, if we challenged the laws, the Valar?’

‘Then they would remove thee, the both of thee,’ said the god in the mirror. ‘Finwë warned thee, and it is true. Thou hast not yet come into thine own power, Fëanor, nor thee, Fingolfin. And all the sons thou didst dream of will never be born. The ones that are, will find themselves without a father. It is thine own choice.’

‘And thou wouldst not prevent that?’ Fëanor bristled.

‘I told thee, no. I will not control thee, nor smooth thy path. Thou must live thine own lives and learn by them.’

Fëanor clenched his hands into fists. ‘And so we must always hide in the shadows?’

‘Not always,’ the god corrected softly. ‘But in Valinor, under the shadow of the Valar...?’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘Thou art not the only ones.’

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

Finwë rode into Formenos the next day with his escort around him, and his banner bearer at the head. Fëanor and Fingolfin were working on one of the larger _Palantiri_ and it was not until Rúmil entered and told them that they knew their father had arrived.

They walked out together. Nerdanel had come out to greet the King, her sons at her side. Finwë, formally dressed, spoke quietly to her, then his eyes turned Fëanor and Fingolfin. There was no warmth in them at all. If anything, he looked wary.

‘Well, father, this is an unexpected surprise,’ Fingolfin remarked. Fëanor said nothing, merely looked, despising him for his lies and hypocrisy. Well, he had what he wanted: wives, children, kingship. _And does it taste bitter, father? I hope so._

Nerdanel lead him into the pavilion, where refreshments were brought. Finwë sat stiffly, asking after the children, then said to Fingolfin: ‘It is past time for thee to return home. Many duties await thee.’ The inference was clear: duties that Fëanor shirked. Fingolfin flushed, but with temper, not embarrassment.  
‘Soon, father.’

‘Today. The Lord Manwë wishes to speak to thee.’

Fingolfin’s eyes flashed to Fëanor’s. ‘Indeed, what about?’

‘I know not, only that he requires thy presence.’

‘And Manwë’s commands must always be obeyed,’ Fëanor all-but sneered. And this time, it was Finwë who flushed.

‘I will return here, after,’ Fingolfin stipulated. ‘I always desire to learn, to make and create, and there is no finer teacher than my brother.’ His glance warmed Fëanor to his bones. ‘Not even Aulë can match him.’

‘There are many artisans to do that,’ Finwë snapped. ‘Thou must learn other skills. It will not be long before thou hast thine own house to order.’

‘I already have one. And I will take the insignia Fëanor made for me as mine own.’

Fëanor smiled at him. ‘Just as I take the Fireflower as mine.’

‘Indeed,’ Finwë stepped between them. ‘There is more to being a prince than insignias. Come, Fingolfin, gather thy things and we shall go.’ He inclined his head to Nerdanel and walked out.

Fingolfin strode to his pavilion, where servants of his father were already packing his clothes, whirled, and headed for the workshop. Finwë was at the door, looking in. Fëanor folded his arms; there was clearly no time for a farewell.  
‘I do agree, father, that there is more to being royal than an insignia,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry. ‘Courage, the courage of one’s own convictions, loyalty to one’s people, is another, I think. Not to leave any behind, lost to the dark.’

There was, he thought, almost fear in Finwë’s eyes, like a child who has been caught doing something wrong. Fëanor met them, waiting, but his father said nothing, though spots of colour burned on his cheeks.

 _I will come back,_ Fingolfin vowed, as he came from the workshop with large leather satchels, and their eyes locked in mutual frustration, mutual hunger. As it was, their farewells were must-needs formal.

Fëanor watched until the black shimmer of Fingolfin’s hair vanished down the road. Fingolfin looked back, raised his hand, and then was gone.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	11. ~ The Matter of Fingolfin ~

  
  


**~ The Matter of Fingolfin ~**

 

 

Finwë barely spoke to him during the ride back to Tirion, and Fingolfin felt no inclination to begin a conversation. He could not pretend that nothing were wrong, as if he had not been treated like a disobedient puppy ordered to heel.

He was content to nurse his anger and to remember (with blood pounding and his length hard against his breeches) the times with Fëanor; so much more than he could have imagined, something he knew he could never relinquish, needed is as he needed the air in his lungs, air that turned to flame in Fëanor’s presence.

The familiar rhythms of the palace were stifling, but Fingolfin was there only one night before they journeyed to Taniquetil. It seemed a hurried departure, even urgent, and his suspicions grew, but he held his peace.

Every other time he had travelled this route, even in Fëanor’s company, Fingolfin had felt the press of the Valar’s minds against his, dull and muffling as a thick feather pillow. Now, he was armed against them. He had only to think of Fëanor, the wildness of their joined passion, to dispel their influence like mist.

When they broke their journey, half-way up Taniquetil, he retired to his chamber after supper and brought out the mirror. He had hesitated at bringing it, but did not want to leave it behind even in a safe place. His rooms at the palace had, he was certain, been thoroughly investigated while he was away. What his parents had thought they might find was a mystery. Love notes, he thought disgustedly, sonnets? When he reached out to Fëanor, he had been infuriated by this breach of his privacy, and so had Fëanor. Before opening the mirror, he spoke to his brother.

 _Have they told thee what they want_? Fëanor asked.

_Nothing; they have barely said a word to me._

Both of them knew Finwë’s messenger must have passed on his suspicions.

_Be careful. I do not like the feel of this._

_Neither do I._

‘Be careful,’ reiterated the god in the mirror, later. ‘And do not use this again until thou art returned from Ilmarin. I want to do what I can do without breaking Taniquetil.’ A faint smile.

‘Knowest thou what they want of me?’ Fingolfin asked softly.

The violet eyes were unblinking, opaque. His fingertips touched the edge of the mirror.  
‘Tell this to Fëanor,’ he said and then, as if reciting: ‘ _The children of Indis were great and glorious and their children also; and if they had not lived, the history of the Eldar would have been diminished._ ’* And now his smile held sorrow before the image faded. And pride. Fingolfin closed the mirror case, sat back, his jaw set.  
_And their children also_?

 _I will not be coerced into marriage,_ his mind spat rebelliously.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

Nothing about Ilmarin seemed real. Fëanor was real, his deep, precise voice, his scent, like mulled wine and hot metal and fire, his skin, ice-white, warm, flawless, his face and body, more beautiful than the finest sculpting and that ebony cloud of hair a storm to his knees. But it had always been his eyes that had fascinated Fingolfin, even as a child. Spacious and long-lidded, shadowed with long, thick lashes that, when they lifted, shocked with their lustre; illuminated diamonds. Self-lit by the fire of his mind. When they fell upon him, Fingolfin _burned_.

 

 

To his surprise, they did not immediately enter Manwë and Varda’s throne hall, but were escorted to the warren of rooms beyond. Here, the Vanyar who lived on Taniquetil dwelt in soft-footed, prayerful quiet.

Finwë and Fingolfin were lead into a high, white chamber where Ingwë greeted them, and then, startling Fingolfin even more, Finwë left him alone with the High King.

Watching Ingwë, Fingolfin could not refrain from thinking of Fëanor, how he saw Ingwë as beautiful but lifeless. His white hair reminded Fingolfin of the Elf they had seen in the mirror but there was none of the tormented passion, the indomitable will, the soul-deep wounds, in Ingwë of the Vanyar.

Ingwë began with pleasantries, speaking of Fingolfin’s coming-of-age and the duties he would now undertake and then, with no preface whatsoever —‘And so, thy parents have spoken to me and we have agreed that thou wilt marry my daughter, Anairë.’

Fingolfin, who had been only half-attending, came to his feet. ‘ _What_?’

‘It is time for thee to be wed and setting up thy nursery,’ Ingwë said primly. Through the thunder of his heart, the beat of blood in his ears, Fingolfin hardly heard. ‘After all, was not thy half-brother wed as soon as he came of age?’ Was there a goad in that question, a slash of spite?

‘Fëanor was duped,’ Fingolfin flashed. ‘Well, _I_ shall not be. Married to a woman who cares nought for me, as I care nought for her? At least Fëanor and Nerdanel have shared interests.’

‘My daughter knows her duty.’

‘Marriage is not a _duty_ , Ingwë. Convey my apologies to the Lady Anairë — although I cannot think that she would be disappointed! — but I will not take her as my wife. Now, if thou wilt excuse me?’ He turned toward the door.

‘Marriage is a duty, as is kingship. Thou wert born to duty, Fingolfin, as the son of a king. And so if thou wilt not shoulder marriage for duty’s sake, wilt thou do it for thy half-brother’s?’

Fingolfin stopped in his tracks.

‘Dost thou think anything escapes the eyes of Lord Manwë, King of Arda?’

Fingolfin turned back, said nothing. He knew better than to give Ingwë anything — word or look or flit of expression — that might serve him. He kept his face blank.

‘Thou hast been raised by the Laws of the Valar,’ Ingwë continued level as a curse. ‘And still thou hast winked at them. Thy feelings for Fëanor are shameless and obvious.’

How much did Manwë truly know? Fingolfin wondered coldly, ice at his heart. He put up his brows.

‘The punishment for breaking the law is imprisonment. Fëanor is older than thee and held to be culpable. He will be taken to Námo’s Halls. Knowest thou what they are? No?’ Ingwë came closer. ‘No-one really does. But they are not a place for the living.’

A flash of panic threw Fingolfin forward to meet Ingwë. ‘Thou art telling me the Valar would kill Fëanor? For _what_?’

‘For leading thee astray,’ Ingwë replied steadily, cobalt eyes on Fingolfin’s. ‘For tempting thee. He is an aberration; he should never have been born.’

Fingolfin actually laughed at that, a harsh, bitter sound like a man choking on rust.  
‘An aberration? Truly? The most brilliant Elf ever born, and he is an _aberration_? So, his birth caused his mother to fade. I know. But he was a child; it was not his doing. What thou meanest is that he does not bow to the Valar.’

‘He is damned. He is doomed.’ Ingwë’s eyes seemed to grow larger in his head, like a cat’s. ‘But thy father would save thee, Fingolfin. And only thou canst save Fëanor.’

‘By marrying Anairë,’ Fingolfin said flatly.

‘By marrying Anairë,’ Ingwë agreed. ‘She is holy; she will lead thee back to thee path of righteousness.’

Sickness rose as bile in Fingolfin’s throat. He seemed to look into painted eyes that showed nothing of the soul beneath. The wrongness affected him like poison, like the Valar’s dew before he woke and knew what it was to be young, to _think_ , to feel. To love. But now the recognised taste was nauseous, the smell the carrion-reek of ivy flowers.  
‘Righteousness?’ The word strangled in his throat. ‘What do they accuse him of? What do they accuse _me_ of?’ He challenged it, eyes wide, head high. ‘Be very careful!’

‘Fëanor is accused of unnatural lusts and thou of being drawn toward them and him.’ Ingwë’s hands came down, heavy as bars on Fingolfin’s shoulders. The sick-sweet stench grew stronger. ‘He must be dealt with. His impiety has been noted. But, if thou art removed from his influence, are wed and busy with thine own family, he must needs cleave to his wife. Otherwise,’ a shrug. ‘He will be brought to Námo for punishment —‘

‘And killed.’ The horror of the thought stopped his breath. Fëanor no longer alive, his body slain, disposed of, and his soul...

‘They will execute him, yes.’ There was not a single note of expression in Ingwë’s voice; it was leaden. ‘And — there is another prisoner of Námo: Melkor. Féanor will at least have a companion, while his soul is reeducated.’

Melkor, whom had created monsters from the _Quendi_. Fingolfin knew little more of him than what the god in the mirror had said, but that information had been a clear warning. Melkor was stronger than the Valar, and a horror.

The Valar did not know, they could not. Not the full extent of the ‘unnatural lusts’ or Fingolfin would not be speaking to Ingwë but marched before Manwë. Deep in the inner pocket of his cloak, the mirror was warm where it touched his leg. Another warning. The god on the other side had done _something_ , blinded Manwë’s eyes to the truth. But that made no difference. The Valar were afraid of Fëanor and merely wanted the excuse to kill him.

_We did not hide it well enough._

Why should they hide it at all?

Fingolfin considered bluffing, but realised (as Fëanor surely had) how helpless the Elves were here in Valinor, slaves to the whims of their overlords. And not even Finwë would raise a voice in objection when Fëanor was taken. Finwë was afraid.  
He was right to be.

_We think — are taught — that we are autonomous, living at peace in a beautiful land, the Valar our teachers, our protectors. A lie. We are entirely at their mercy._

Then he thought of Fëanor’s sons, so young, loving their father, and of Nerdanel; Fingolfin was jealous of her, yes, but he liked her, and wished her no ill.

His jaw was clenched so hard that it ached. He felt the flutter of furious, trapped panic that threatened to sweep aside all logic, objections, sense. He saw Ingwë’s perfect face through a haze of crimson which shocked into white, as if red-heat were not enough to encompass his rage. Kin or no, for Indis was Ingwë’s sister, Fingolfin wanted to smash the complacent expression from the High King’s face, to wake him up, make him what he had been.

He wrestled with the temptation, although something of it must have shown in his eyes; Ingwë stepped back from him abruptly.  
‘My daughter will not meet with thee today,’ he said. ‘She communes with Varda. But tomorrow thou wilt be wed and return to Tirion and thy duties.’

‘Thou art mad,’ Fingolfin hissed at him. ‘Scraping and truckling at the feet of the powers. A toad-eater and bootlicker. Thou wilt sacrifice thine own daughter on their altar. High King of all the Elves, they call thee.’ He raked contempt from Ingwë’s white-shod heels to his face. ‘Thou art _nothing._ ’

Ingwë flushed as if Fingolfin had struck him and lights of anger showed in his eyes. Fingolfin turned, strode to the door and marched out.

He could not mindspeak Fëanor, not in this mood. More than anything, he must not place Fëanor in any more danger than he was already in, with the Valar poised to swoop down upon him, murder him, make him nothing more than a memory. The fire that burned like a living will in Fëanor made him dangerously, devastatingly, charismatic, but it could also rule his temper.

Fingolfin went to the bedchamber he was allocated when in Ilmarin, closed the door behind him. He swallowed a glass of nectar, icy, biting and closed his eyes, trying to breathe.

He could not sustain the thought of Fëanor gone. Even the word ‘death’ was impossible, wrong. Elves were not meant to die, not in Valinor, although Míriel had. And Fëanor...the brilliance of him. A world without him...

Fingolfin bent over, gasping. The agony speared through him like ice, spreading from his heart until all of him was cold, hollow. He seemed to hear, somewhere, a terrible screaming, and knew it was in his mind, helpless in the throes of a grief he could not utter aloud. There was a sensation like falling, familiar and awful, falling into a pit from which there was no escape but death because Fëanor was _dead._

He groaned into his arm, needing to scream out his denial of something that _had not happened_. His heart seemed to rock him back and forth, pounded like a hammer behind his closed eyes. He needed to talk to Fëanor, oh gods, he needed Fëanor for far more than that. He could not. Failing that, he needed to speak to their unknowable ally in the mirror, but it was too dangerous here, in the heart of the Valar’s power.

But the god in the mirror had known; and done nothing, because he had said he would not level their paths. Part of Fingolfin, looking over its shoulder to his recent childhood, longed for protection, ease, but the greater part, that had come to adulthood with Fëanor’s fire in his veins and the promise of freedom in Endor, rejected it. The god was right; they could never grow if they were sheltered. But this road was hard. Hard.

Tears scalded his eyes, born of rage rather than sorrow. He forced them back, refusing to give the Valar the satisfaction of knowing he wept. He had to conceal his emotions even, he realised, from Fëanor. Especially from Fëanor. Who would know, of course, that Fingolfin had been forced into marriage; had even expected it would happen. Yet the situation could be navigated, like riding a horse over rough ground, if Fëanor believed that Fingolfin accepted it, just as Fëanor had accepted his own union with Nerdanel.

But they had at least shared something in common; Fëanor had counted Nerdanel one of his few friends before their marriage. Fingolfin did not know Anairë, but suspected that she simply wanted to be left alone to dwell in the ‘holy’ bubble she inhabited. That she did not want to meet her future husband, had been communing with Varda, said a great deal and none of it positive.

By the time a servant announced supper, Fingolfin had taken his mutinous emotions and hammered them down. His willpower was sorely tested when Indis came to him and embraced him, congratulating him on his ‘wisdom’ in accepting Anairë as his bride. He could hardly say anything with servants passing back and forth, standing at the doors — guards, he thought, not servants, the eyes and ears of the Valar. He merely picked at his food and retired early. Never had he felt so helpless, so alone.  
The strange, shadowless night of Taniquetil passed with dragging slowness.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

Dressed in sapphire and white (the robes chosen by Indis without his knowledge and brought to Taniquetil with her own baggage) and with Fëanor’s gift on his brow, he was conducted into Manwë’s throne hall the next day. Indis was already there, a pale figure swathed in gossamer veils. All Fingolfin could see was a misty profile, down-bent over clasped hands. She was no doubt praying for the resolve to go through with this.

Manwë presided over the ceremony after a monologue in which the words: obedience, prayer, chastity (within marriage, thought Fingolfin acerbically? but then, in this marriage, he would find no difficulty in complying) were repeated so often that they became a meaningless drone. At last, both Fingolfin and Anairë spoke their vows, and her hand was placed in his. Hers was cold as ice.

There was a quiet wedding feast after, but no consummation followed; such things were too base for the Halls of Ilmarin, apparently, sex a shameful act to be done behind closed doors and drapes and only for the creation of children.

When they halted on their way down from Taniquetil, Anairë was given a separate room, and soon retired with Indis. Fingolfin was left with Finwë, whose face was stern.

Fingolfin put his wine aside. ‘I assume, father, that thou hast some advice for me?’

Finwë’s eyes lifted. ‘I have something that will help thee,’ he agreed, and drew out a pouch. In it was a small phial of some dark liquid. Fingolfin knew what it must be.  
‘No more than six drops. It is...effective, so they say.’

‘How truly thoughtful of thee, father.’

‘Do not be foolish, Fingolfin,’ Finwë said wearily, as if speaking to a rebellious child. ‘Thou knowest thou must marry. And thou must hold to that marriage, a faithful and true husbands. Believe it or not as thou wilt, but I would prefer _not_ to lose both my sons to the prison of the Timeless Halls.’

‘Yes, it would reflect rather badly on thee, would it not?’ Fingolfin leaned forward. ‘. I would take exile over this! If I were with Fëanor, I would not care where I was. He is the other half of me, the Mirror that reflects my own soul.’

Finwë flinched back. His eyes widened. ‘Ridiculous! Thou must not say it nor think it.’

‘Why?’ He lost his temper. ‘Because thou didst have a brother once — ? a brother who was also thy lover? Oh do not look so astonished. Thou art not the only Unbegotten in Valinor, and all of them remember.’

‘Fingolfin!’ The name came strangled. Finwë swallowed, his eyes moving over Fingolfin’s face. ‘It was long ago, and we did not know we sinned. The Valar taught us that—‘

‘—The Valar,’ Fingolfin coughed up a harsh laugh. ‘They care for none of us; they seek only to control. Well, let me tell thee mine intention, and Fëanor’s too: We will leave this cage. One way or another.’ He rose, swept the phial into his hand and left the room.  
In the privacy of his bedchamber, he drew out the mirror. His reflection showed white, set with anger, eyes burning like the circlet on his brow. Then the image cleared and the god’s splendid eyes looked back at him sombrely.  
‘You knew!’ Fingolfin accused.

‘I knew it was a possibility,’ the god acknowledged. ‘But it is as I told thee: thou wilt have children, as will thy brother, Finarfin, and some of them will be _magnificent._ ’ The pronunciation of that last word struck Fingolfin to the bone, so that he straightened, stared into the Mirror. The god nodded.  
‘In years to come, thy marriage will merely be something that was endured by thee, by Anairë. Thinks’t thou anything could keep thee from Fëanor, or him from thee?’

‘Nothing,’ Fingolfin responded passionately. ‘ _Nothing._ I care naught for what they purpose and expect.’

‘But that is the danger, Fingolfin. They will be watching thee. Oh, I can ensure they are blinded when thou art with Fëanor, and I have, but thy words will be listened for: rebellion, discontent. Thou art both of thee princes and cannot avoid shining, of being the focus of love and worship — or hate. Thou must be careful.’

‘I do not want to be _careful_!’ Fingolfin almost shouted. ‘I want to be _with him._ Openly. Honestly. I want to order my own life, not dance like a puppet with the Valar manipulating the strings!’

‘I know,’ the god said softly. ‘And thou shalt. But it will never be in Valinor.’

‘I wish,’ Fingolfin said violently, ‘that thou wouldst just destroy them.’

Unexpectedly, the god’s eyes gleamed like a new-forged weapon. Fire leapt up there, a wild burning.  
‘Few things would give me greater pleasure, I promise thee that,’ he said. ‘And no doubt I will be there, but it is the Elves who will destroy them, Fingolfin. Thyself, Fëanor, and those who follow thee or, at the least, come to agree with thee. This is only the beginning.’

‘And what is the end?’

‘There will never be an ending. That, too, I promise thee.’

So much power in the god’s voice; it seemed to come from the air itself, left Fingolfin breathless as if some mighty force had pushed through his body, leaving his blood hot, light. The words echoed as though a great gong had been struck. Wind struck suddenly against the lodge.

 

 

 _Perhaps I would like children, too._ Fingolfin braced against Fëanor’s anger which was directed wholly where it belonged.

_Who would blame thee? But Anairë? They wanted me to marry her. She is one of Varda’s handmaids._

_Then she will hardly be a demanding partner, will she? She can worship who she pleases, as long as she does not try and influence any children we may have._

_Did our father give thee the drug?_ Fëanor asked.

_And without my asking for it._

_I hate this_! Fëanor exploded.

_So do I._

_How did they threaten thee_?

Fingolfin hesitated. _Does it matter? It is done._

Fëanor was far from stupid; he would guess (know) pressure had been brought to bear, something that Fingolfin could not defy. Fingolfin was, therefore, surprised to hear the note of jealousy when he said, _Anairë has no personality — none of the Vanyar on Taniquetil do! — but she is beautiful._

Fingolfin choked. He sought for words; had he not been so enraged himself (though it had become a colder, harder thing than the white-hot fury he had felt in Ilmarin) he might have smiled.  
_Fëanor, no-one can match thee save our unnamed ally, and our lost uncle._ Because both of them had the look of him — or he of them. _This marriage is less than thine own. We have nothing in common. And a marriage where neither are willing? Is that even a true bonding at all? I think not._ He shook himself impatiently. _How many marriages in Valinor are real at all? The Elves of Endor have it aright; why not take any willing lover? Why be bound to one alone?_

 _It is just another measure of their control,_ Fëanor spat. _To bend us out of our true selves. I wish—_

 _Fëanor,_ Fingolfin broke in before his half-brother’s temper could flare again. _I used the mirror when we broke the journey to Ilmarin. The god said to tell thee this: “The children of Indis were great and glorious, and their children also and if they had not lived, the history of the Eldar would have been diminished”._

 _So he knew what would happen,_ Fëanor said flatly.

 _He knew it was a possibility. And_ thou _knowest he will not coddle us. I said I wished he would just destroy the Valar, but he said it is for us to do. This is the beginning, he said, and there is no ending._

A burst of snow whipped past the window with the rattle of ice in it. Manwë’s hand, or the nameless god’s?  
_Fingolfin, my beauty, I believe any children of thine would be glorious,_ Fëanor sounded more subdued, mind-voice aching. _But yes, I wish he would destroy the Valar, also._ A pause; the icy wind threatened, a dirge. _I will come to visit thee in Tirion. Nerdanel is with child again, and it is better for her to be in the palace until Formenos is built._

Another child? It seemed every time Fëanor bedded his wife, a new child resulted.  
_Yes,_ Fingolfin said. _Yes. Come._

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

The palace had prepared for its second prince to return married. That fact blasted aside Fingolfin’s stately calm as he rode through the streets where people scattered flowers and waved ribbons. No doubt they thought it romantic, a secret hidden until now.

When Fëanor wed, his wife had dwelt in his apartments for a time, but for Fingolfin’s marriage, Finwë had made one wing of the palace over to the newly-wedded couple. One chamber had been transformed into a prayer room, dominated by a statue of Varda, at which Anairë might kneel.

There was a splendid feast, at which it seemed Finwë and Indis smiled unconvincingly until surely their cheeks ached with the strain. Anairë, seated beside Indis looked as lifeless as the statue of Varda, upright, frozen and unapproachable. She remained so when Fingolfin conducted her to their bedchamber. She excused herself in that thin, icicle-voice, to pray and Fingolfin bathed and changed. He added three drops from the phial thinking that this was what Fëanor had done, still did.

It was a sensation he never came to accept or enjoy after knowing the pure, wild joy of sex with Fëanor, without need of drugs to stimulate him. Together, they soared like the Great Eagles, burned as twin stars. Even with the aid of the stimulant, his couplings with Anairë were uncomfortable, awkward. Nor could they be called couplings; she lay stiff as a log, eyes slammed shut, hands clenched into the covers. Fingolfin had never lain with a woman and did not know how to please her, so he simply asked her: what did she want him to do? She did not open her eyes; hissed through her teeth for him to _finish it._

He came to know, later, that Varda’s handmaidens were always virgin, that the thought of sex anathema to them. Anairë would rather have suffered imprisonment than be wed. Only duty compelled her. But on this first night, he only knew that she wanted this as little as he, and so he was as gentle as possible. The drug had made him stiff, but there was no desire. He did not even release. When it was over, he withdrew to the bathing room and imagined himself with Fëanor, and brought himself to a swift, violent orgasm.

After, Anairë spent a long time in the bath, then went to her prayer room, closing the door behind her. Fingolfin drew a house-robe around him and slept Telperion’s hours away in his study. He stretched out on the couch, and dreamed of the scent of pine and cold mountain water, of a banner snapping over high white towers. And of Fëanor.

The days fell into a pattern: Fingolfin would join his father in the day, sitting in on political matters, while Anairë was with Indis. The women’s rooms were not a place any man, even the King, would go unless invited. During the Mingling, when the royal family dined, Fingolfin sat beside his wife as Finwë and Indis discussed their days. Later, they would retire to bed.

Fingolfin did not touch Anairë for several nights after that first time. She did and said nothing indicating she wanted him, and although they slept in the same bed, it was big enough that their bodies never touched. Sometimes, he fell asleep before she returned from her prayers. There was no way forward. When he spoke to her she answered in her fluting ice voice as briefly as possible. She never volunteered a remark. Her demeanour was that of one pushed into a position she loathed, yet her hatred was not directed at those who had forced it, but at Fingolfin, who hated it as much as she. He was polite to her, but even courtesy was received with a set face, thin lips and that frozen expression, detesting him.

Five days after their return to Tirion, Indis summoned Fingolfin. He thought, as he entered her presence, how similar to Anairë she was in her white robes, the impassive set of her face.  
She had her maids serve him wine then withdrawn; she folded her long white hands in her lap and said, ‘Thy marriage must produce children, my son.’

‘A woman, mother, must _want_ to become pregnant, is that not so?’ At her bare nod he spread his hands. ‘Anairë _wants_ to be what she was before, one of Varda’s handmaids. She no more desired this marriage than I did and she is not reconciled to it.’

‘And thou should know that it does not matter,’ his mother said sharply. ‘She certainly does. We all obey the laws or suffer the consequences. Marriage is a holy, and —‘

‘But that was not how it was before, in Endor, was it? Any kind of love was sacred. Thine own for another woman for example.’

Her breast heaved. He thought she would deny it, but perhaps, ultimately, she could not. She swallowed. ‘So Fëanor has spoken to thee?’

‘There are others in Valinor who know of it. Was it hard, mother, to give her up when the Valar asked it of thee? Or rather, _ordered_ thee.

She rose, her cheeks flushed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But there was no choice. There is none for thee.’

‘There is always a choice. Wouldst thou have returned to Endor, if thou couldst?’

‘We could not. And thou canst not know how it was.’ Her voice lowered, no less intense. ‘Our friends, our people, those we loved, they just disappeared. And those who went to search for them, they too, never returned.’ She picked up her wine, drank half of it. ‘We were warned of the Dark God in the North, but what did we know of evil?’

‘Perhaps there are different kinds of evil, mother.’

Her eyes flashed up at him. ‘The Valar are not evil. They simply have different rules than we—‘

‘To make us easier to control! Why else would they deem lovers of either gender wicked? Why would they enforce a marriage to one person and not to two, or more? Or was it too much like freedom for them to stomach?’

‘Fingolfin, no _more._ This is our world now, and there is no returning.’

 _There had better be,_ he thought. _We shall make it so._

‘As for Anairë, it is true she married only for duty and no woman can conceive while hating the man, so I suggest that she also uses the potion. She will never take it willingly, so if thou wert to place it in her wine—‘

‘Thou art asking me to _drug_ her?’ Fingolfin asked incredulously. Indis gave a delicate shrug.  
‘A child may reconcile her to her lot.’

‘I will have nothing to do with so base an action,’ he said hotly. ‘And I wonder thou wouldst even suggest it! I do not like her, and most certainly she hates me, but I will put no pernicious drug into her wine! Gods, she would _know_ her actions were unnatural and after, when she was herself again, she would loathe it.’

His mother merely shrugged again. ‘Then I will deal with the matter. Dost thou not understand? A royal family is always being watched, spoken of, emulated. We are at the pinnacle. Even the lowest servant can see that this marriage of the Second Prince is a sham. They must not question why, Fingolfin. And thou must both of thee make the effort to appear at least comfortable together.’

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

Fëanor arrived two days later, with his wife and sons and their servants. Fingolfin, watching from a high window, saw the banner of the Fireflower before the walls hid it. His heart rose just at that, and he went quickly down to the great inner ward.

His reaction to seeing Fëanor was as intense as if his whole body had been plunged into a bath of fire but instead of his flesh burning his whole being was set alight with sheer _life_ and desire. It was his brother whom had come home but to Fingolfin it felt as though he himself had. Fëanor was his home, his heart, his centre. He did not move or say anything but Fëanor turned as if he felt a hand on his shoulder and their eyes met.

Nothing else existed. Fingolfin moved across the cobbles as if he were floating — and then Finwë stepped into his path so quickly that Fingolfin blinked.

‘How pleasant of thee and thy family to join us.’ Finwë’s voice was over-loud, too-jovial. ‘I assume thou art come to congratulate thy brother?’

‘Of course,’ Fëanor said with a suggestion of gritted-teeth. ‘What other reason could there be?’ He was still growing, as was Fingolfin, and now was taller than Finwë. He looked down at his father remotely, as if from a distance, then turned to Fingolfin. Their hands clasped and clung. Fingolfin’s eyes flew over Fëanor’s delectable mouth, the column of his neck, brilliant eyes, and his throat dried.

Finwë ushered them in briskly, speaking of Fëanor’s prepared chambers, praising Maitimo and Macalaurë’s growth. Fëanor carried his youngest son, whose huge silver eyes smiled at Fingolfin over his father’s wide shoulder, but Maitimo skipped eagerly along, looking around, his copper hair dancing.

 _I will never forgive him for this,_ Fëanor shot at Fingolfin. And: _We need to meet._

 _Yes._ Yes. _Where? When_?

A glimmer. _I know a place, my beauty..._ He turned his head to Fingolfin, eyes blazing with a promise. _Soon._

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

* The Silmarillion: Of Fëanor.


End file.
